THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Stratford  &  Green 
640  S,  Main  St.. 

Lo«  Angeles,  -  -  Cal. 


LYRICS   OF  THE    LARIAT 


POEMS   WITH    NOTES 


FLEMING  H.   REVELL  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK— CHICAGO— TORONTO 


ENTERED    ACCORDING    TO    ACT    OF     CONGRESS,      IN    THE    YEAR    ONE     THOUSAND, 

EIGHT  HUNDRED   AND   NINETY -THREE,  BY   N.    K.    GRIGGS,  IN  THE 

OFFICE    OF  THE    LIBRARIAN    OF    CONGRESS, 

AT  WASHINGTON,   D.   C. 


Cf)t  lakrsftir  ]\Srcst 
R.  R.  DONNELLEY  &  SONS  CO.,  CHICAGO 


|7 

1 


Plain  prose  is  Jersey  cream, 
From  stony  vessel  dipt, 

While  poetry  is  froth, 
By    silver  ladle  whipt; 


And  tho'  the  one  will  give 

Great  stores  of  bread  and  meat. 

The  other   rarely   yields 
A  blessed  thing   to  eat. 


665870 


A  CUR,        -  -                       -      34 

AN  ASP,  -            -           203 

AN  IRISHMAN,       •  93 

A  POETIC  PROPOSAL,  -            -           189 

A  SUFFRAGIST  SUFFERER,  •                       -     114 

A  THIRTY  YEARS'  DREAM,  131 

BAIT,  -    163 

BEN,  24 

CONTENT,    -                       -  -     165 

Do  NOT  FEAR,  ...           139 

ETERNITY,                                        -  -    246 

FIELD  OF  LIFE,  101 

GARLAND  THE  LAND,       -  -     112 

GONE  BEFORE,  187 

GOOD  NIGHT,  -    235 

HALLOWED  SONG,        •  233 

HASTEN,      -    .  •            -     192 

HASTE  TO  THE  MOUNT  OF  THE  LORD,      •           •  40 

HAVE  I  THY  LOVE,  -     172 

9 


10  CONTENTS. 


HIGH  MASS  OF  THE  MUSES, 

105 

HOBO'S  LAMENT, 

.       211 

HOPE,     - 

I49 

HOPE'S  OFFERING, 

-     118 

I'LL  SING, 

158 

INYAN  KARA, 

-      95 

JOYLESS  YOUTH, 

144 

KEEP  Us  CLOSE  TO  THEE, 

-     231 

KITTY, 

168 

LAND  OF  REST,     - 

-     119 

LIFE'S  AFTERNOON,    - 

199 

LIFE'S  SERVICE,    -            r 

-     197 

LITTLE  FOXES, 

60 

LOVE, 

-     141 

LOVE'S  MOODS, 

...           224 

MAMMON,    - 

-     174 

MAVERICK  JOE, 

42 

MEMORY'S  FLIGHT, 

-      37 

MY  DREAM  OF  LOVE, 

68 

O  GIVE  ME  YOUR  HAND, 

-125 

ONCE  MORE,    ... 

205 

ONLY, 

-     183 

O  THOU  SUPREME,     - 

215 

OUR  FLAG, 

•      59 

CONTENTS.  1 1 


PANDORA,                                   • 

161 

PARTING,    .... 

•    251 

PASSION  FLOWERS,     •           • 

23 

POWER  DIVINE,     - 

-    i94 

RELIANCE, 

83 

REST,  PEACE  AND  JOY,    - 

-    229 

RULER  AND  COMPOSER, 

179 

SABBATH  MORN,     - 

-      49 

SAILING  'NEATII  THE  CROSS, 

157 

SERPENTS, 

-       84 

SHIPS  OF  STATE, 

67 

THE  BLIZZARD, 

-       70 

THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR, 

277 

THE  COWBOY, 

13 

THE  COWBOY  PREACHER, 

237 

THE  CURLEW  SONG, 

-     152 

THE  DESERTED  CHURCH, 

89 

THE  FATHER  SEETH  ALL, 

-     127 

THE  FLOWERS  OF  LOVE,       .... 

38 

THE  GENII  OF  WINE, 

-       63 

THE  LOON  CRY,                                 ... 

120 

THEN, 

-         51 

THE  PRAIRIE  DOG,     ... 

54 

THE  SOD  HOUSE  COMING, 

-    348 

THE  Two  TRIOS, 

"5 

THE  UNFAILING  CRUSE, 

-     129 

1 2  CONTENTS. 


THE  VOICE  OF  HOPE,       -  ...     14.3 

THE  VOYAGE,  176 

THE  WATERS  TO  THE  HOSTS,    -  20 

VESPER  CRADLE  SONG,  18 

WHAT,  •     170 

WHAT  Is  MAN,  -            -           103 

WHEN,         -  -                 185 

WHEN  LIFE'S  SUN  GOES  DOWN,  -             82 

WHILE  I  DREAM,  -            -      98 

WONDERFUL  RIVER  OF  JORDAN,      -  .           227 


THE   COWBOT.  13 


With  eyes  that  were  blazing, 
But  now  that  are  glazing, 

In  barroom,  "The  Bruin  " — that  rattlesnake  clen- 
A  cowboy  is  lying, 
And  silent,  is  dying, 
Surrounded  by  careless,  yet  resolute  men. 

So,  sing  of  the  rover, 

Whose  wanderings  arc  over, 
And  iv ho,  'without  even  a  tremor  of  dread, 

Lies  down  on  the  prairie, 

Where  nature  makes  merry, 
And  spears  of  the  cactus  arc  guarding  his  bed. 


14  LYRICS   OF  THE  LARIAT. 


',  HO'  father  and  mother, 

And  even  one  other, 
Had  begged  him  to  tarry,  they  pleaded  in  vain; 

For  wild  as  a  ranger, 

And  mocking  at  danger, 
He  cared  but  to  gallop,  a  Knight  of    the  Plain. 

Tho'  zephyrs  were  creeping, 

Or  tempests  were  leaping, 
The  spur,  to  the  bronco,  he  wantonly  prest; 

And  shouting  and  singing, 

And  lariat  swinging, 
Rode  on  like  a  spirit  that  never  knew  rest. 


THE   COWBOT. 


Wherever  he  wandered, 

His  money  he  squandered, 
With  hand  of  a  gambler  and  kingliest  grace; 

And  ever  was  willing 

To  stake  his  last  shilling 
On  turn  of  a  penny  or  chance  of  an  ace. 

A  hand  to  the  weary, 

And  smile  to  the  dreary, 
He  willingly  offered  to  lowliest  woe; 

And  taunt  to  the  sneering, 

And  blow  to  the  jeering, 
As  willingly  tendered  to  insolent  foe. 

Last  night,  at  The  Bruin, 

He  guzzled  red  ruin, 
And  tackled  draw  poker,  along  with  the  rest; 

When  one  began  stealing 

The  cards  they  were  dealing, 
And  waddy  objecting,  was  shot  in  the  breast. 


16  L TRIGS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 

Aware  that  he's  going, 

For  cold  he  is  growing, 
He  calls  for  his  saddle  as  rest  for  his  head; 

Then   says,  without  flinching, 

That  "  Death  is  now  sinching," 
And  then,  on  his  blanket,  the  puncher  lies  dead. 

So,  sing  in  soft  numbers, 

Of  him  that  now  shimbcrs, 
Who  -wantoned  with  fortune  and  scouted  at  care; 

And  sweetly  is  dreaming, 

77/<?'  curlews  arc  screaming, 
And  coyotes  howling  like  imps  of  despair. 


'7 


1 8  LYRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


Vesper  Cradle  \Soncr. 

Now  the  day  at  prayer  is  kneeling, 

Hushabye,  baby,  sleep; 
And   the  vesper  notes  are  stealing, 

Hushabye,  baby,  sleep; 
And  the  eve,  in  silver,  drest, 
Pins  her  star  upon  her  breast; 

Sing  low,  swing  low, 

Hushabye,  baby,  sleep. 

Now  the  day  is  drowsy  growing, 

Hushabye,  baby,  sleep; 
And  the  firefly  lamps  are  glowing, 

Hushabye,  baby,  sleep; 
And  the  lily  sips,  for  you, 
Nectar  from  the  lips  of  dew; 

Sing  low,  swing   low, 

Hushabye,  baby,  sleep. 


VESPER  CRADLE  SONG. 


Now  the  day  is  sweetly  dreaming, 

Hushaby e,  baby,  sleep; 
And  the  eyes  of  night  are  beaming, 

Ilnshabye,  baby,  sleep; 
And  beside  your  cherub  feet, 
Pussy  purrs  to  you,  my  sweet; 

Sing  low,  swing  low, 
.  Hushaby  e,  baby,  sleep. 


20  LYRICS    OF   THE  LAP  I  AT, 


Watery  ho  tl^e 


As  laughing  brooklet  goes 

To  join  the  noble   stream, 
Or  dallies  with  the  birds, 

That  e'er  its  lovers  seem, 
Or  tarries,  here    and  there, 

To  kiss  the  bending  flovv'rs, 
It  ever  sweetly  sings, 

In  happy,  holy  hours: 
Ye  Hosts  above, 

The  Lord    is  Love. 


THE  WATERS  TO  THE  HOSTS.     21 

As  smiling  river  greets 

The  pure  and  lowly  stream 
Or  ripples,  while  the  stars 

Above  in  beauty  beam, 
Or  journeys  swiftly  on 

To  reach  the  rolling  main, 
It  ever  sweetly  sings, 

That  rhythmic,  rich  refrain: 
Ye  Hosts  above, 
The  Lord  is  Love. 

As  boundlqss  ocean  hails 

The  broad  and  mighty  stream, 
Or  glistens,  while  the  sails 

Upon  its  bosom  gleam, 
Or  surges,  while  the  wind 

In  solemn  cadence  moans, 
It  ever  sweetly  sings, 

In  tender,  touching  tones: 
Ye  Hosts  above, 
The  Lord   is   Love. 


22 


LYRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


And  long  as  brooklet  runs 

To  wed  the  courtly  stream, 
And  long  as  river  seeks 
.  The  coral  caves  to  dream, 
And  long  as  ocean   swells, 

With  pulse  and  purpose  strong, 
They  yet  will  sweetly  sing 
That  same  seraphic  song: 
Ye  Hosts  above, 
The  Lord  is  Love. 


PASSfOW  FLOWERS. 


Love's  many  strange  moods 

Are  blossoms  of   passion, 
That  Will  cannot  grow, 

Nor  Reason  may  fashion; 
But  Fancy  alone, 

Gives  birth  to  the  flowers, 
That  burst  into  life, 

In  Cupid's  wild  bowers. 


LTRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


S  many    boys  have 

longed  to  do, 
And    many    boys    have 

done, 

When  in  my  teens,  I  drift 
ed   West, 
To    find    where    wealth 

was  won; 
And  anchored    soon  where 

men  were  tough, 
As  tough   as  earth  could 

boast, 
Where  each  it  seemed,  had 

volunteered 
To  serve  in  Satan's  host. 


BEN.  25 


Among  the  number  there  was  one 

They  called  the  "Devil's  Ace," 
A  fellow  with  a  sorrel  top, 

And  yellow,  freckled  face; 
Whose  wrath  was  like  the  fiery  floods 

That  sweep  the  rolling  plain, 
With  fury  that  no  tongue  may  tell, 

Nor  mortal  arm  restrain. 

Another  one  was  "  Saintly  Sam," 

A  coy,  but  gamey  bird, 
Who  rarely  steamed  above  his  gauge, 

And  rarer  cussed  a  word; 
And  yet  whose  heart  was  like  the  wild, 

Where  spears  of   cactus  grow, 
And  he  that  dared  to  trespass  there, 

Received  a  stinging  blow. 


26  LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


And  one  was  dubbed  as  "  Whiskey  Jack," 

A  brutal,  brawling  bloat, 
Who'd  meanly  thump  the  tenderfoot, 

Then  o'er  his  anguish  gloat; 
And  there  were  Buck  and  Booze  and  Blood, 

Who  had  no  thought  of  fame, 
And  yet,  in  way  of  wickedness, 

Deserved  an  honored  name. 

But  there  was  one  among  the  crowd, 

I  only  knew  as  "  Ben ;" 
Who  stood  a  notch  above  the   rest 

Of  all  those  rowdy  men; 
Who  was  a  brawny,  burly  chap, 

The  master  soul  of    sin, 
And  where  the  others  called  a  halt, 

He'd  just  about  begin. 


BEN.  27 


In  every  spree  he'd  be  the  one 

To  down  the  most  of  budge; 
And  as  to  who  had    won  at  cards, 

He'd  always  be  the  judge; 
In  short,  he  was  a  Hercules, 

A  sort  of  pagan  boss, 
Who  made  the  other  heathen  bow, 

And  worship  him  as  Joss. 

For  such  a  harum  -  scarum  lot, 

Of  course  my  gait  was  slow; 
And  then,  I  thought  the  track  they  took 

Was  pointed  straight  below; 
Besides,  I'd  vowed,  when  yet  a  kid, 

And  pledged  my  mother,  too, 
That  I  would  never  taste  the  truck 

She  said  the  demons  brew. 


28  LTJffCS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


It  chanced  the  day  I  landed  there, 

That  some  one  set  them  up; 
When  I,  with  fears  and  yet  with  thanks, 

Declined  the  proffered  cup; 
And  then  I  thought  my  time  had  come, 

Because  the  others   said, 
That  if  I  didn't  hoist  it  in, 

They'd  load  my  hulk  with  lead. 

At  this,  hig  Ben  —  God  save  his  soul! 

Stretched  forth  his  arm  of  law, 
And  told  each  guzzler  in  the  gang, 

To  cease  to  wag  the  jaw; 
And  then  he  turned  to  me  and  asked, 

In  way  that  sounded  queer, 
The  why  it  was  I  then  refused 

To  take  a  drop  of  cheer. 


30  LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Tho'  fairly  quaking  in  my  boots, 

I  yet  had  nerve  enough, 
To  tell  them  why  I'd  vowed  the  vow 

To  never  taste  the  stuff; 
And  how,  till  then,  I'd  kept  my  word, 

In  spite  of  jeer  and  scoff, 
And  therefore  hoped  they'd  condescend 

To  kindly  let  me  off. 

Then  O,  it  seemed  so  good  to  hear 

The  precious  words  of  Ben, 
As  savagely,  with  blazing  eyes, 

He  faced  the  scowling  men, 
And  swore,  by  all  the  blessed  saints, 

He'd  plug  the  imp  of  sin, 
Who  dared  to  lay  a  hand  on  me 

To  make  me  swig  the  gin. 


BEN.  31 


And  then,  he  said,  in  lower  tones, 

A  mother  once  he'd  had, 
Who  tried  her  best,  but  died  too  soon, 

To  raise  a  decent  lad; 
And  then  he  hissed,  between  his  teeth, 

He  thought  I'd  acted  square, 
And  that  the  whelp  who    disagreed, 

Would  climb  the  golden  stair. 

And  then  the  others  called  the   turn, 

And  said  they  wept  for  joy, 
To  find  a  chap  —  who  hadn't  wings — 

That  yet  was  mother's   boy; 
Indeed,  I  guess,  tho'  strange  it  was, 

A  couple  even  cried, 
I  reckon  just  because  of  her 

Who  Ben  declared  had  died. 


32 


LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


And,  odd  to  say,  they  caved   around, 

With  navy  in  each  hand, 
And  said  the  one  who  filled  me  up, 

Would  hunt  the  hotter  land; 
And  odder  too,  they  formed  a  ring, 

And  raised  their  hands  and  swore, 
That  if  I  dared  to  break  my  pledge, 

They  sure  would  hunt  my  gore. 


BEN.  33 


As  now  I  conjure  back  the  scene, 

And  live  again  the  day, 
That  Ben  stood  there,  and  cussed  and  cussed, 

And  kept  those  wolves  at  bay, 
I  swear  he  seems  a  Moses  sent 

To  sternly  plead  my  cause, 
And  show  to  all  those  wretched  men, 

The  might  of  holy  laws. 

Just  what  the  Lord  should  do  with   Ben, 

There  is,  of  course,  a  doubt; 
But  still,  I  think,  the  righteous  One, 

Should    hardly  bar  him  out; 
At  least,  when  I  have  reached  the  gate, 

Where  Peter  holds  the  key, 
You  bet  your  life  I'll  plead  for  Ben, 

As  Ben  once  pled  for  me. 


34  LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


An  orator,  with  tongue  of  fire, 
Denounced  the  deed  of  one, 
Who  scowled  the  while  the  polished  ire 

In  burning  satire  run; 
When  suddenly,  in  voice  that  told 

The  keenness  of  the  slur, 
The  latter  cried,  in  manner  bold: 
And  dare  you  call  me  'cur?' 

The  speaker  paused,  but  not  with  fear, 

And  scanned  the  glaring  foe, 
Then  made  reply,  with  cynic  sneer, 

In  measured  tones  and  slow: 
By  all  the  joys,  when  sorrows  end, 

No  dog  I  called  you,  sir, 
Because  no  whelp  will  wound  a  friend, 

And  you're  unlike  the  cur. 


A   CUR.  35 


The  clog  that  jogs  before  your  wheels, 

When  riches  holds  the  reins, 
Will  trot  behind  your  heavy  heels, 

Nor  heed  your  pauper   chains; 
Nor  yet  will  he  your  hovel  fly, 

Tho'  hunger  drives  the  spur, 
And  so  'tis  plain  the  reason  why 

I  shrink  to  call  you   'cur.' 

And  so  your  dog,  of  golden  days, 

When  all  your  worth  proclaim, 
Will  share  your  lot,  tho'  songs  of  praise, 

Give  place  to  dirge  of  blame; 
And  should  you  sleep  in  dungeon  dread, 

No  shame  would  him  deter, 
But  there  he'd  go  to  guard  your  bed; — 

Who'd  think  to  call  you  'cur?' 


LTIt/CS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


My  prattling  maid,  a  witching  fay, 

My  angel  four-year-old, 
Went  forth  to  play,  one  summer  day, 

And  tripped  where  waters  rolled; 
When  quickly  sprang  her   shaggy  mate. 

And  lost  his  life  for  her; 
And  both  for  me,  in  Heaven  wait;— 

D'you  think  I'd  call  you  'cur?' 


ME  MO  ft  T  'S   FL IGH  T. 


37 


More  swift  than  the  light, 
Sun -winged  on  its  flight, 
More  swift  than  the  flash, 
When  thunder -clouds    clash 
Mind  flies  to  life's  morn,    \ 
And  brings  to  the  old, 


LTKICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


The  flowers  of  love  spring1  up  in  our  highways, 
And  wave  in  our  fields  and  border  our  byways, 
And  yet  we  ne'er  learn  who  plants  them  nor  tills 

them, 
Nor  yet,  when  they  die,  what  secret  foe  kills  them. 


THE  FLOWERS   OF  LOVE.  39 

Some  flowers  of  love,  tho'  carefully  tended, 
And  from  the  rude  blast,  by  fond  ones  defended, 
Bloom  sweetly  an  hour,  then  wither  and  perish, 
And  leave  not  a  leaf  for  fond  ones  to  cherish. 

And  other  love-blooms  are   beautiful  roses, 
That  blossom  from  spring,  till  summer-time  closes; 
And  then  only  fade,  because  we  neglect  them, 
And  from  the  chill  frost,  we   fail  to  protect  them. 

And  other  love -blooms,  tho'  fragile  and   lowly, 
Are  jewels  of  earth,  most  precious  and  holy; 
For  even  when  winds,  of  Autumn,  are  sighing, 
Those  flowers  bloom  on,  unfading,  undying. 

Those    blooms    of    the     heart,   that   gladden    life's 

mountains, 

Are  watered  by  rills  that  flow  from  pure  fountains; 
And  tho'  a  white  shroud,  in  winter,  conceals  them, 
An  angel  again,  in  spring-time,  reveals  them. 


40  L  TIUCS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


to  \\IQ  y^oimt  of  bb® 


Tho'  the  dark  flags  of  the  tempest  are  streaming, 

Waved  by  the  hosts  of  the  sky, 
And  the  bright  blades  o'er  the  ramparts  are  gleaming, 

Flashed  by  the  cohorts  on   high,— 
Tho'  the  gray  steeds  of   the  winter  are  leaping, 

Crazed  by  the  lash  of  the  air, 
And  the  wan  earth  in  its  surplice  is  sleeping, 

Hushed  by  the  dirge  of  Despair, 
Still,  on  the  height,  and  removed   from   all  sorrow, 

Stung  by  no  chastening  rod, 
Safe  may  we  be,  on  the  beautiful  morrow, 

Bathed  in  the  sunlight  of  God; 
So,  to  the  One,  who  is  lovingly  calling, 

Sing  we  a  song  in  accord, 
And,  when  the  shadows  of  danger  are  falling, 

Haste  to  the  Mount  of  the  Lord. 


HASTE  TO  THE  MOUNT  OF  THE  LORD.    41 

Tho'  the  rare  buds  that  in  childhood  we  cherished, 

Died  in  the  morning  of  June, 
And  the  ripe  fruits  of  affection  have  perished, 

Seared  by  the  glare  of  the  noon, — 
Tho'  the  dear  friends  all  around  us  are  paling, 

Chilled  by  the  breath  of  the  frost, 
And  the  low  notes  of  remembrance  are  wailing, 

Winged  o'er  the  breasts  of  our  lost, 
Still,  on  the  height,  and  beset  by  no  sorrow, 

Scourged  by  no  chastening  rod, 
Glad  may  we  be,  on  the    beautiful  morrow, 

Kissed  by  the  sunlight  of  God; 
So,  to  the  One,  who  is  tenderly  calling, 

Breathe  we  a  prayer  in  accord, 
And,  when  the  waters  of  anguish  are  falling, 

Haste  to  the  Mount  of  the  Lord. 


42 


LYRICS   OF   THE   LARIAT. 


ON'T  know 

Of  Maverick  Joe, 
That  buster  of  broncos  in  chief, 

And  who, 

As  every  one  knew, 
Waxed  rich  as  a  Maverick  thief? 

It's  strange, 

Out  here  on  the  range, 
That  you  haven't  known  of  his  name, 

Nor  heard 

How  ranchers  were  stirred 
Because  of  his  Maverick  fame. 


BRONCO -BUSTER. 

43 


44  L  TRIGS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 

Well,  then, 
I'll  whisper  again, 
That  tale  of  the  cow  and  her  kid, 

Altho', 

Thought   Maverick  Joe, 
The  trick   was  a  corker  they  did. 

Out  West, 
With   lucre  unblest, 
He  rangled  for  others  a  year, 

While  budge, 
As  well  you  may  judge, 
Occasion'ly  offered  him  cheer. 

One  day, 

With  poker  the  play — 
That  game  by  no  tenderfoot  learned- 

I  hear 

He  rustled  a  steer, 
That  wasn't  quite  honestly   earned. 


MAVERICK  JOE. 


45 


And  then, 

He  built  him   a  den, 
Way  out  where  the  punchers  were  few, 

And  there, 

Tho'  not  by  the  square, 
He  soon  to  a  cattle  -  king  grew. 

'Twas  queer 
How  often  that  steer 
Raised  calves  for  his  Maverick  "-{-"  (cross), 

Tho'   now, 
I'm  bound  to  allow, 
His  gain  was  some  other  one's  loss. 

One  noon, 

Along  about  June, 

A  Maverick  daisy  he  saw — 

The  best, 

And  one  that    he  guessed 
He'd  own  by  the  Maverick  law. 


46  LTJRfCS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 

And  so 

He  rastled  it  low, 
And  gave  it  a  touch  of   his  brand, 

Then  smiled, 
For  fortune  beguiled, 
That  happiest  chump  in  the  land. 

Next  morn, 
As  sure  as  I'm  born, 
It  chanced  that  a  round-up  begun, 

And  then, 

Some  blundering  men, 
Caught  on  to  the  caper  he'd  done. 

For  now, 

They  circled  a  cow, 
One  bearing  a  "a"  (square)  on  her  side, 

That  bawled, 
And  motherly  called, 
At  sight  of  his  Maverick  pride. 


MAVERICK  JOE. 


47 


The    kid 
Then  bellowed  and  slid, 
And  buckled  right  in  for  a  meal; 

And  —  well, 
It's  idle  to  tell 
The  feelings  he  couldn't  conceal. 


Tho'  caught, 
He  swore  it  was  bought, 
Where  never  a  seller  was  nigh; 

But  all, 

Tho'  praising  his  gall, 
Yet  reckoned  no  cattle  would  lie. 


48 


LYRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


And  thus, 
That  ornery  cuss 
Got  sinched  on  account  of  that  pair; 

Because, 

By  cattlemen  laws, 
A  "+"  shouldn't  tackle  a  "Q". 


SAB  HATH  MORN.  49 


SABBATH  MORN. 

ike  scenes  of  youth,  to  the  wand'ring  one, 

ike  hours  of  rest,  when  the  task  is  done, 

ike  dreams  of  health,  when   the  lips  grow  pale, 

ike  hearth  of  home,  when  the  drear  winds  wail, 

•*/)MHMp^^_f^' 

Is  Sabbath  Morn. 

ike  white  of  sail,  on  the   lonely  deep, 
ike  wand  of  hope,  when  the  troubles  sweep, 
ike  gleam  of  gold,  when  the  clouds  are  rent, 
ike  hush  of  peace,  when  the  storm  is  spent, 
Is  Sabbath  Morn. 

'ike  kiss  of  sleep,  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
ike  face  of  friend,  on  an  alien  shore, 
ike  draught  of  clew,  to  the  fainting  bloom, 
ike  balm  of  faith,  at  the  closing   tomb, 
Is  Sabbath  Morn. 


LYRICS    OF    THE  LARIAT. 


ike  notes  of  joy,  in  a  dirge  of  sighs, 
ike  songs  of  old,  when  the  daylight  dies, 
ike  glimpse  of  stream,  in  a  waste  of  sand, 
ike  touch^  of  love,  from   a  dear  one's  hand, 
Is  Sabbath  Morn. 


THEN.  51 


rays  of  beauty  floated  round  me, 

And   my  world  seemed  fairyland, 
When  the  shutters  of  my  fancy, 

Wide  were  swung  by   Cupid's  hand; 
Then  the  chalice  of  my  gladness, 

Glowed  and  sparkled  in  my  sun, 
While  I  drained  its  holy   nectar, 

Quaffed  to  him,  my  plighted  one; — 
Marvel  not  my  clay  of  dreaming, 

Marvel  not  nor  query  when, 

For  I  can  but  give  you  answer: 

It  was  then,  then,  then. 

When  the  noonday  light  is  guarding, 
Who  may  say  when  dawn  begun? 

And  when  midnight  gloom  is  warding, 
Who  may  say  when  eve  was  done? 


52  LYRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 

So,  when  Love  has  winged    his  arrow, 
Who  may   say  when  bow   he  bent? 

And  when   Love  afar  has    journeyed, 
Who  may  say  the  time  he  went? — 

Marvel  not  my  day  of  dreaming, 
Marvel  not  nor  query  when, 

For  I  can  but  give  you  answer: 
It  was  then,  then,  then. 

When  I  heard  that  olden  story, 

Told  by  Love  with  master  skill, 
Like  a  siren  song  it  \vooed  me, 

Thralled  me  with  a  siren  will; 
And  tho'  far  away  I've   wandered, 

From  that  day  of  perfect  bliss, 
Still,  a  wand  of  sweet  enchantment, 

Blends,  somehow,  that  time  with   this;- 
Marvel  not  my  day  of  dreaming, 

Marvel  not  nor  query  when, 


THEN.  53 

For  I  can  but  give  you  answer: 
It  was  then,  then,  then. 

As  the  rarest  chords  of  pleasure, 

Die  at  times,  in   minor  strains, 
And  the  silv'ry  haze  of   summer, 

Fades  away  in  autumn  rains, 
So,  the  one,  my  soul  exalted, 

Of  whose  life  I  seemed  a  part, 
Wafted  me  to  heights  of  rapture, 

Then  threw  down  my  trusting  heart; — 
Marvel  not  my  day  of  dreaming, 

Marvel  not  nor  query  when, 

For  I  can  but  give  you  answer: 

It  was  then,  then,  then. 


54 


LTRICS    OF   THE  L Alt/ AT. 


D00r. 


I'm  a  merry  prairie-dog, 

YiP>  yip>  yip» 
And,  like  a  jolly  pollywog, 

Flip,  flip,  flip; 
And  when  I  give  my  little  yip, 
Why  then  I  flip  my  little  tail, 
And  when  I  give  my  tail  a  flip," 
Why  then  to  yip  I  never  fail; 
And  thus  I  ever  gayly  bark, 


And  ever  on  my  daily  lark, 
Flip,  flip,  flip. 


THE  PRAIRIE-DOG.  55 


And   I  reside  in  squatter-town, 
Where  even  corner  lots  are  free, 
And  I'm  no  common  country  clown, 
Altho'  somewhat  of  low  degree; 
For  I'm  a  merry  prairie-dog, 

Yip»  y^  yip* 

And,  like  a  jolly  pollywog, 
Flip,  flip,  flip. 

And  I'm  a  great  aristocrat, 
And  will  admit  that  I  am  vain, 
But  never  wear  a  dudey  hat, 
Nor  sport  a  razzle-dazzle  cane; 
For  I'm  a  merry  prairie-dog, 

YiP>  yiPi  y>P> 

And,  like  a  jolly   pollywog, 
Flip,  flip,  flip. 


56  LYRICS    OF    THE  LARIAT. 


And  though  I  rule  the  city  roost, 
And  have  the  aldermanic  skill, 
I  never  give  my  lot  a  boost, 
And  make  another  foot  the  bill: 
And  thus  I  ever  gayly  bark, 

YiP>  yip>  y»P» 
And  ever,  on   my  daily  lark, 

Flip,  flip,  flip. 

And  tho'  the  snakes  I  often  see, 

I  never  go  on  any  toots, 

And  not  a  soul  can  say  of  me, 

That  I  have  snakes  within  my  boots; 

And  thus  I   ever  gayly  bark 

YiP»  y»P»  y^ 
And  ever  on  my  daily  lark, 

Flip,  flip,  flip. 


THE  PRAIRIE-DOG.  57 


And  I've  a  judge  with  owly  eyes, 
Who  helps  the  serpent  lawyers  thro', 
And  sits  around,  appearing  wise, 
As  little  judges  always  do; 
And  thus  I  ever  gayly  bark, 

Y»p»  yip»  y»pi 

And  ever  on  my  daily  lark, 
Flip,  flip,  flip. 

And   I'm  a  chap,  I  surely  think, 
Ahout  as  cute  as  other  men, 
For  when  I  want  to  get  a  drink, 
I  simply  scoot  within  my  den; 
And  thus  I  ever  gayly  bark, 


And  ever,  on  my  daily  lark, 
Flip,  flip,  flip. 


L TRIGS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


O,  I'm  a  merry    prairie-dog, 


And,  like  a  jolly  pollywog, 

Flip,  flip,  flip; 

Arid  I'm  the  dandy  of  the  west, 
And  yip  and  yip  my   mellow   rhyme, 
And  as  my  tail  declines  to  rest, 
I   flip  and   flip  in  even  time; 
And  thus  I  ever  gayly  bark, 


And  ever,  on  my  daily  lark, 
Flip,  flip,  flip. 


OUR   FLAG. 


59 


Oar* 


Of  all  the  numberless  flags 

unfurled, 
Thro'out     this      hurrying, 

restless  world, 
The  beautiful    one  we  love 

to  view, 

That  banner  of  stars,  on  field  of  blue, 
Is  far  to  the  front  upon  the  sea 
Of  boundless  and  deep  prosperity. 


60  LTKfCS   OF   THE  LA  Iff  AT. 


eep  back  the  angry    frowns,  dear  maid, 
For  none  but  laughing  eyes, 

And  smiling  lips,  and  heart  so  gay, 
And  childish  glee,  from  day  to  day, 
Are  what  your  parents  prize; 
Keep  back  the  angry   frowns,  clear    maid, 
For  angry  frowns  make  beauty  fade. 

Keep  back  the  hasty  words,  my  dear, 
For  well  you  surely  know, 

That  even  tho'  you  strive  for  aye, 
You  never  can  those  words  unsay, 
If  once  they  rudely  go; 
Keep  back  the  hasty  words,  my  dear, 
For  hasty  words  will  cause  a  tear. 


LfTTr.E    FOXES.  6l 


Drive  out  your  evil  thoughts,  dear  boy, 
For  none  will  ever  bring, 

To  wounded  heart,  the  balm  of  prayer, 
Nor  ever  drive  away  a  care, 
Nor  make  hosannas  ring; 
Drive  out  your  evil  thoughts,  dear  boy, 
For  evil  thoughts  ne'er  lead  to  joy. 

Drive  out  your  little  sins,  my  child, 
For  like  the  nearing  night, 

They  surely  yet  will  darker  grow, 
And  ever  gloom  your  way  with  woe, 
And  all  your  future  blight; 
Drive  out  your  little  sins,  my  child, 
For  little  sins  are  all  defiled. 


THE   GENII   OF    WINE.  63 


the  rosy  wine  is  blushing, 

Like  a  ruby,  kissed  with  light; 
O  the  ringing,  thrilling   music, 

Makes  the  dreary  hours  grow  bright; 
O  the  dizzy,  dreamy  dancing, 

True  and  loving  hearts  enthrall; 
O  the  artful,  luring  sirens, 

Seem  the  angels  of  the  ball; 
Ah!  the  sirens  and  the  dancing, 

And  the  music  and  the  wine, 
Are  the  spirits  of  the  revel, 

That  the  foolish  deem  divine; 
But  the  wanton  smiles  of  pleasure, 

Soon  will  vanish,  chased  by  sneers, 
And  the  fragile  cup  of  gladness, 

Soon  be  running  o'er  with  tears. 


64  LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


O  the  blushing  wine  is  glowing, 

Like  the  ruddy  cheeks  of  mirth; 
O  the  lovely,  costly  mirrors 

Seem  reflecting  only  worth; 
O  the  pleasing,  princely  paintings 

Seem  enchanting  as  a  smile; 
O  the  winning,  wooing   billiards 

Seem  repeating,  "Pause  awhile;" — 
Ah!  the  billiards  and  the  paintings, 

And  the  mirrors  and  the  wine, 
Are  so  charming  that  the  careless, 

To  their  magic  oft  resign; 
But  that  stately  hall  of  splendor, 

So  beguiling,  so  sublime, 
Is  a  reeking  hot-house  only, 

Filled  with  springing  shoots  of  crime. 


THE  GENII  OF   WINE.  65 


O  the  glowing  wine  is  glaring, 

Like  the  dragon  eyes  of  hate; 
O  the  reckless,  frenzied  gambler 

Is  defying  God  and  fate; 
O  the  brainless,  brutal  brawler 

Is  inviting  pain  and  shame; 
O  the  worthless,  sotted  beggar 

Is  profaning  manhood's  name; — 
Ah!  the  begger  and  the  brawler 

And  the  gambler  and  the  wine, 
Are  companions  worthy,  only, 

Those  attending  Pluto's  shrine; 
But  the  drunkard,  witched   to  madness. 

By  a  strangely  potent   spell, 
Gropes  forever  in  their  darkness, 

Sinks  forever  in  their  hell- 


66  LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


O  the  glaring  wine  is  burning, 

Like  the  wasting  fires  of  woe; 
O  the  deadly,  gleaming  dagger 

Gives  the  wanton,  wicked  blow; 
O  the  dismal,  darksome  dungeon, 

Is  awakened  by  no  prayer; 
O  the  awful,  fearful  scaffold 

Tells  of  hopeless,  black  despair; — 
Ah!  the  scaffold  and  the   dungeon, 

And  the  dagger  and  the  wine, 
Are  the  ripened  fruits  of  satan — 

Aye,  thou  demon,  they  are  thine! — 
But,  poor  drunkard,  child  of  weakness, 

Yours  the  anguish  not  alone, 
For  your  kinsmen,  too,  must  harvest 

From  the  sorrows  you  have  grown. 


SH/PS   OF  STATE. 


67 


ur  noble  Ship  of  State, 
With  swelling  sheets 
The  soft  wind   greets, 
And  spreads  her  sails, 
Despite  the  gales, 

And  swiftly  bears  the  Free; 

While  others'  ships,  tho'  great, 
If  zephyrs  go, 
Or  breezes  blow, 
With  canvas  wide 
Yet  slowly  glide, 

Upon  the  golden   Sea. 


68 


LTJifCS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


There  is  a  Sun,  so  bright,  so  bright, 
That  floods  my  sky   with  morning  light, 
And  ever  lends  me  rays,  soft  rays, 
To  cheer  me  on  my  rugged  ways, 
And  ever  I  am  drawn  above, 
By  that  dear  Sun,  my  Dream  of  Love. 


There  is  a  World,  divine,  divine, 
Where  trust  has  reared  a  golden  shrine, 
And  all  is  rilled  with  joy,  pure  joy, 
And  cares  come  not,  nor  pleasures  cloy, 
And  ever  I  am  drawn  above, 
By  that  dear  World,  my  Dream  of  Love. 


MT  DREAM  OF  LOVE.  69 

There  is  a  Star,  so  clear,  so   clear, 
That  smiles  upon  my  pathway  drear, 
And  gives  to  life  a  wing,  swift  wing, 
With  which  to  soar  where  angels  sing, 
And  ever  I  am  drawn  above, 
By  that  dear  Star,  my  Dream  of  Love. 

There  is  a  Moon,  serene,  serene, 

That  robes  the  earth  with  silver  sheen, 

And  thrills  the  dales  of  gloom,  deep  gloom, 

And  paints  a  tint  on  ev'ry  bloom, 

And  ever  I  am  drawn  above, 

By  that  dear  Moon,  my  Dream  of  Love. 

There  is  a  Heart,  more  true,  more  true, 

Than  yet  was  sung,  or  seraph  knew, — - 

My  Sun  and   World,  my  Light,  sweet  Light, 

My  Star  and  Moon,  my  lone  Delight, — 

And  ever  I  am  drawn  above, 

By  that  dear  Heart,  my  Dream  of  Love. 


7o 


LYRICS    OF    THE  LARIAT. 


So  Sam,  old  boy,  you  were  East  the  day 

That  awful  storm  came  across  this  way, 

With  swinging  tread,  and  a  blast  of  woe, 

From  up  there  North,  where  the  Blizzards  grow; 

But  still  you  read  quite    enough,  I  guess, 

About  that  spell,  in  the  down-east  press, 

For  motes  out  here,  make  the  chaps  there,  cry, 

While  beams,  down  there,  never  make  them  sigh; 

And  let  the  feet  of  a  cyclone  swing, 

And  trip  our  turf  with  a  highland  fling, 

Or  let  us  wink  to  the  chap,  Judge  Lynch, 

To  treat  some  whelp  to  a  neck-tie   sinch, 

And  down  it  goes,  in  their  blackguard  type, 


THE   BLIZZARD. 


And  thus  the  West  gets  a  back-hand  swipe; — 

And,  Sam,  no  doubt  for  the  dauntless 

Nell, 
You    threw    your    hat,    with    a 

cowboy  yell, 

On    reading    how,    in    the 
blinding     snow, 
She    kept    the    boys 
and    the    girls 
in    tow, 


And  brought 
them    home, 
tho'  the  storm  - 
winds  dread, 
Like    devils,    clutched 

at  the  school  she  led. 
And    then,   I'll    wage    that 

you  raised  one  shout, 


72  LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 

For  her  that  taught  where    the  wood  gave  out, 
Whose  flock  she  kept  in  the  room  all  night, 
Tho'  air  grew  chill  and  there  gleamed  no  light, 
And  with    them  romped,  nor  allowed    them  sleep, 
For  fear  Death's  arms  would    around   them  creep. 
But  for  that  girl,  on  the  cold  North  Loup, 
The  one  that  taught  in  the  old  sod-coop, 
Who  saved  the  kids,  ev'ry  blessed  one, 
Then  died  herself  when  the  job  was  done, 
I'll  bet  my  boots  that  your  sobbing  heart, 
Somehow,  old  chap,  made  the  tear-drops  start. 

But,  Sam,  one  thing,  I  presume,  at  least, 

You  did  not  read  when  away  down  East, 

For  no  one  there,  ever  wrote  or  knew 

How  Hank  got  home,  when  the  mad  winds  blew, 

And  so  I'll  tell  of  the  tramp  he  had, 

Steered  on  alone,  by  his  own  brave  lad. 

Before  that  storm,  tho'  the  world  seemed  glad, 

The  sunlight  shone  in  a  way    half  sad, 


THE   BLIZZARD.  73 

For  straggling  flakes,  with  a  careless  flight, 
Came  floating  down,  in  the  soft,  weird  light, 
And  sailed  about,  in  the  warm,  sweet  air, 
With  sun-gold  twined  in  their  snow-white  hair, 
Then  gently  fell,  with  a  languid  grace, 
And  veiled  the  face  of  the  earth  with  lace, 
And  not  a  twig  by  a  breeze  was  stirred, 
And,  Sam,  no  threat  of  a  storm  was  heard. 

At  three  that  day,  or  about  that  time, 

While  love  yet  crooned  o'er  the  slumb'ring  clime, 

There  came  a  sound,  o'er  the  sun-lit  plain, 

Like  distant  roar  of  a  railway  train, 

And  then  the  hosts,  from  the  Blizzard's  lair, 

Sprang  forth,  full-armed,  on  their    steeds  of  air, 

And,  urged  by  Death,  came  a  thund'ring   down, 

With  scowls  as  black  as  a  demon's  frown, 

And  bowling  on,  like  a  thousand  steers, 

Whose  eyes  are  bulged,  and  ablaze  with  fears. 


74  L  TRIGS   OF  THE  LA  HI  AT. 

And  then,  concealed  by  the  clouds  they   spread, 
At  once    they  charged,  with  an  earthquake    tread, 
And  shrieking,  leaped  at  the  drowsing  sky, 
And  bore  it  down  with  a  fiendish  cry; 
And  cursing,  smote  with  an  iron  hand, 
The  blanching  cheek  of  the  quaking  land; 
And  frothing,  stamped  on  the  prey  they  slew, 
Then  wailed  a  dirge  as  they  onward  flew. 

Well,  Sam,  that  noon,  as  he  always  did, 
Hank  romped  awhile  with  the  tow-head  kid — 
That  six-year-old,  little  pug-nosed  tod, 
Who  ruled  his  ranch  with  a  wizard's  rod — 
Then  gave  the  lad  a  resounding  smack, 
And  told   his  wife  he  would  soon  be  back, 
And  whistling  loud,  to  the  fields  was  gone, 
Without  his  gloves,  nor  a  thick  coat  on, 
And  thus  he  was  when   the  drunken  snow 
Came  reeling  in  with  the  hosts  of  woe. 


76  LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Now,  when  Hank's  wife  saw  the  storm  rush  in, 
With  brow   as  black   as  the  soul  of  sin, 
She  cried   with  fright,  like  a  woman  would, 
Then  grabbed  her  shawl,  and  her  warm,  knit  hood, 
And  thus  prepared, — 'twas  an  insane  prank, — 
She  sought  to  go  on  a  search  for  Hank. 

Just  then  the  lad,  like  a  wayward  elf, 
Got  up  and  joined   in   the  cry   himself, 
And  held  her  dress,  and  declared  he  knew 
His  pa  would  come  when  his  work  was  thro'; 
And  then  he  smiled,  in  a  trustful  way, 
And   said:     I'll  ring,  and   mamma,  you  pray, 
And  then   he'll  hear,  and   he'll   think   he's  late, 
And  come  right    home,  for    he'll   know  we  wait. 
Now,  Sam,  what  else  could  the  poor  thing  do, 
While  Furies  raved  and  the  cohorts  flew, 
Than  kneel  and  pray  to  the  one  Great  One, 
To  steer  Hank  home  to  herself  and  son? 


77 


LTRlCS   OF   THE  LA  ft  I  AT. 


So  down  she  got  and  at  once  sailed  in, 
Just  like  one  does  when  the  stakes  he'd  win; 
And,  Sam,  I  guess,  in  her  wild  despair, 
She  held  four  kings  at  the  game  of  prayer. 

The  hoy,  ere  this,  with  a  brave,  strong  heart, 
Had  hopped  upstairs  to  perform  his  part, 
And,  in  less  time  than  a  man  dare  tell, 

Had    reached    the    cord    of 

the  big  farm-bell, 
And    pulled   and    pulled,   till 

it  creaked  and  swung, 
Then,  yanked    and     yanked, 

while  it  rung  and  rung; — 
And,  Sam,  right  here,  I'll  remark  one  thing, 
That  those  great  bells,  in  the    towns,  now  ring, 
Alone,  I  .think,  just  to  kill  sick  folks, 
For  not  one  soul  to  the  church  they  coax ; 
Their  senseless  clang,  when    the  world's  at  rest, 
Appears  to  me  like  a  wanton  jest;- 


THE  BLIZZARD.  79 

But  Hank's  big  bell  never  tolled  but  joy, 
And  so  that  day,  for  that  precious  boy, 
It  sent  Hank  cheer,  thro'  the  grizzly  gloom, 
And,  in  his  heart,  made  the  hope-buds  bloom. 
Now,  when  the  troops,  spurred  along  by  Death, 
Came  charging  down  on  the  Whirlwind's  breath, 
Hank  gave  one  look,  with  a  wild  surprise, 
Then  swifter  flew  than  the  greyhound  flies, 
But  paused,  ere  long,  for  the  seething  frost 
So  filled  his  eyes  that  his  course  he  lost; 
Now,  while  he  stood,  and  the  Blizzard  jeered, 
And  gloating  imps  at  their  victim  leered, 
He  heard  the  voice  of  the  wooing  bell, 
Come  floating  on,  with  a  wondrous  swell, 
As  ring  the  tones  from  the  heav'nly  dome: 
Ci  Your  loved  ones  wait,  hurry  home,  come  homc;"- 
I'll  grant  that  Fame,  with  her  lies  and  wiles, 
Can  lure  her  dupes  where  delight  ne'er  smiles, 
That  scowling  Hate,  with  its  madd'ning  spell, 
Ca».  drive  some  souls  to  the  depths  of  hell, 


8o  LTRICS   OF   THE   LARIAT. 

That  GoM  —  that  king  of    the  heartless  reign  — 
Can  steel  his  serfs  to  the  cries  of  pain, 
Yet.  Sam,  true  love  has  a  force  or  will 
TI  at  shames  those  slaves  of  the  realms  of  ill ; 
^o,  when  that  voice,  thro'  the  whirling  foam, 
Came  floating  clown  with  that  prayer  from  home, 
Hank's  mind  flew  on  to  the  loved  ones  there, 
Then  full  he  turned  on  the  ranks  of  air, 
And  fiercely  on  to  the  northward  prest, 
Tho'  ice-shot  rained  on  his  thin-clad  breast, 
Nor  stayed  his  feet  in  the  sleet-bound  grass, 
Tho'  legions  fired  in  his  face   with  glass, 
Nor  changed  his  course,  nor  with  fear  once  quailed, 
Tho'  blind  the  way,  and  his  strength   then  failed, 

But,  Sam,  no  tongue  on  the  earth  can  tell 
Just  how  Hank  tramped  to  that  pleading  bell, 
And  so  I'll  skip  from  the  gloom  and  roar, 
And  say  he  fell,  thro'  his  own  wide    door, 
For  Death,  right  there,  tripped  his  stone-like  feet, 


THE  BLIZZARD.  8l 

Then  slunk  away,  with  his  winding-sheet; — 
Then,  Sam,  gewhizz,  but  the  prayer  stopped  then, 
Without  a  hint  of  the  word  "Amen;" 
And  that  big  bell,  that  the  brave  boy  swung,  r, 
Just  creaked,  "Hank's  here,"  then  it  held  its  tongu^J 
And  that  wide  door,  with  a  slam,  went  to, 
And  shut  the  wrath  of  the  storm  from  view. 
Then,  when   he'd  thawed,  you  can  bet  your  life, 
He  hugged  that  lad  and    he  kissed  that  wife; 
And  she,  poor  soul,  why,  she  cried  and  cried, 
As  tho,'  in  truth,  that  her  Hank  had  died; 
But  that  strange  kid,  tho'  he  wept  some,  too, 
Just  said,  "  Say,  Pa,  was  your  work  all  thro':" 


82  LYRICS   OF  THE  LARIAT. 


'  the  gloom  of  night  is  falling, 
And  the  wintry  winds  are   calling, 
Tho'  we  feebly  stand  and  shiver, 

While  the  earth  is  bare  and  brown, 
If  above  we  have  our  treasure, 
Garnered  there  in  goodly  measure, 
We  will  gladly  cross  the  river, 
When  life's  sun   goes  down. 


RELIANCE. 


I  will  not  bow, 

In  trial  hour,  and  call 
for  mortal  arm 

To  ward  the  blow, 
But  only  bow 

And  pray  to  Him,  who 
shields  from  ev'ry   harm, 
And  ev'ry  foe. 


LYRICS   OF   THE   LARIAT. 


SERPENTS. 

THOUSAND  boughs  are  bending. 

Within   the  woodland  wild, 
As  softly   bends  a   mother 

Above  her  slumb'ring  child; 
And  tiny  brooks  are  sporting, 

Where  elves  their  vigils   keep, 
As  children  sport  at  ev'ning, 

Ere  hushed  by  wand  of  sleep; 
And  dainty  blooms  are  blushing, 

With  tints  from  realms  of  bliss, 
As  maidens  blush   with  rapture, 

When  lovers  steal  a  kiss; — 
Ah,  surely,  'mid   such   beauty, 

Where  Peace  unfolds  her  wing, 
A  serpent  is  not  lurking, 

To  dart  a  deadly  sting;— 


SERPENTS. 


Not  so,  for  here  the  foe, 

With  poisoned  tongue  of  Satan, 
Lies  low 

To  strike  the  blow. 


A  humble  home  is  ringing, 

With  joyful  notes  of  song, 
Awaking,  with  their  gladness, 

No  dread  nor  thought  of  wrong; 
And   happy  boys  are  dreaming 

Of  place  and   honored   name, 
And   thinking  that  a  nation 

May   yet  their   worth   proclaim; 
And   smiling  girls  are  trusting, 

That  life,  with  them,  will  be 
As  river,  gliding,  gently, 

To 'find  the  silv'ry  sea; — 


86 


LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Ah,  surely,  'mid  such  pleasure, 

Where  Love  unfolds  her  wing, 
A  serpent  is  not  lurking, 

To  dart   a  deadly  sting; — 
Not  so,  for  here  the  foe, 

With  venomed  tongue  of  Satan, 
Lies  low 

To  strike  the  blow. 


A  woman  proud,  is  singing, 

And  throngs  acclaim  her  thrall, 

And  hail  the  magic  numbers 
That  chain  the  hearts  of  all; 

And  statesmen  wise,  are  speaking 
The  words  that  woo  and  thrill, 


SERPENTS. 


87 


And  forcing,  with  their  logic, 

The  world  to  do  their  will; 
And  warriors  bold,  are  leading, 

Where  Horror  shrieks  and  raves, 
And  gaining,  by  the  carnage, 

The  wreath  that  hero  craves; — 
Ah,  surely,  'mid  such  power, 

Where  Fame  unfolds  her  wing, 
A  serpent  is  not  lurking, 

To  dart  a  deadly  sting; — 
Not  so,  for  here  the  foe, 

With  forked  tongue  of  Satan, 
Lies  low 

To  strike  the  blow. 


ffi^ 


THE  DESERTED  CHURCH. 


89 


There's  an  old  gray  church,  deserted  and  lone 

Where,  fondly,  the  ivy  yet  clings  — 
Whose  glory  is  gone,  and  spirit  has  flown, 

And  never%  to  worship  now  rings; 
Nor  ever  the  strains  of  beautiful  lay, 

Re-echo  enchantingly  there, 
But  only  the  wind's  weird  wailings  to-day, 
Awaken  that  sanctum  of  prayer. 

O,  hallowed  Church,  so  dear, 
Thy  ivy-clad  walls  I'm    longing  again  to  see, 
And  thy  roof,  by  moss  o'ergrown, 
And  thy  floor,  of  slabs  and  stone, 
For  memory  fond  now  carries  me  back  to  thee. 


90  LTRICS  OF  THE  LARIAT. 


Up  aloft,  in  gloom,  in  wondering  dome, 

The  church-bell,  corroding,  is  dumb, 
Where  swallows  have  found,  in  quiet,  a  home, 

And  owlets,  in  safety,  have  come  ; 
And  sweetly,  for  years,  the    sexton,  so  brave, 

Has  rested   with  those  he  laid  low, 
And  over  his  breast,  the  willow-boughs  wave, 
And  lovely   forget  me-nots  blow. 
O,  hallowed  Church,  so  dear, 

Thy  sorrowing  notes,  that  often  awoke  the  dell, 
Were  attuned,  by  hands  above, 
To  inspire,  by  tones  of  love, 
The  mourner  to  sigh  the  answer  of  faith;  'Tis  well. 


When  the  star,  of  day,  has  faded  from  sight, 
And  darkness  its  banner  unfurled, 


THE  DESERTED  CHURCH.  91 


And  pickets,  on  high,  in  armor  so  oright, 

Are  guarding  the   slumbering  world, 
My  fancy  creates  me  visions  of  yore, 

That  ravish  my   heart  with  their  spell, 
And,  happy,  I  dream  the  sexton,  once  more, 
Is  ringing  that  resonant  bell. 

O,  hallowed  Church,  so  dear, 
How  often,  at  eve,  I   fancy  thy  songs  resound, 
And  invoke  the  scenes,  long  fled, 
And  recall  the  friends,  long  dead, 
And  summon  the  days  when   childhood,  with  joy, 

was  crown'd. 

I  have  roved  thro'  groves  of  olive  and  palm, 
And  trespassed  on  Arctic's  domain; 

The  ocean  I've  sailed,  in  tempest  and  calm, 
And  sauntered  thro'  temple  and  fane; 


92  L  TKICS  OF  THE  LARIA  T. 


And  often  I've  stood  where  worshipers  thronged, 

As  music  through  corridors   rolled, 
Yet  ever,  'mid  all,  I  strangely  have  longed, 
That  ruin  to  sadly  behold. 

O,  hallowed  Church,  so  dear, 
The  echoing  notes  of  anthems,  so  rich,  so  clear, 
And  of  chants,  so  full,  so  sure, 
And  of  hymns,  so  soft,  so  pure, 
I'm   longing  to  hear    awaken    thy   walls,   so  drear. 


AW  IRISHMAN. 


93 


AN  IRISHMAN, 

Be  there  a  sad  note 

In  an   Irishman's  lays, 
Vet  joy  will  he  found 

In   his  rhythmical  line; 
And  be  there  a  cloud, 

Over  all  of  his  days, 
He  gladdens  the  rifts 

With  effulgence  divine. 


INTAN  KARA.  95 


O   Thou,  my   Inyan   Kara, 

Thou  Mount,  in  mount's  embrace, 
No  more  by  Aria  -  Eeka, 

My  steps  to  thee  I  trace; 
O  Thou,  where  merry  songsters 

Sent  echoes  far  and  wide, 
And  gave  a  wildwood  greeting 

To  her,  my  dusky  bride. 

O  Thou,  my  Inyan  Kara, 

Thou  Mount,  with  breath  of  bloom, 
No  more,  by  Aria  -  Eeka, 

I  scent   thy  rare  perfume; 
O  Thou,  where  oft  I  wandered, 

With  light  and  wary  tread, 
To  find,  amid   thy   windings, 

The  haunt  where  prey  had   fled. 


LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


O  Thou,  my  Inyan   Kara, 

Thou  Mount,  of  rugged  height, 
No  more,  by   Arla-Eeka, 

I  watch  the  eagles'  Might; 
O  Thou,  where  morning  greeting 

I   gave  to  rising  sun, 
Then  knelt  to  distant  altar, 

Where  hero  rites  were  done. 

O   Thou,  my   Inyan   Kara, 

Thou   Mount,  from  earth's  unrest, 
My  own,  my  Arla-Eeka, 

Now  sleeps  upon  thy  breast; 
O  Thou,  where  fallen  chieftain 

Is  rocked  by  forest  arms, 
While  Zephyr  croons  above  him, 

And  stills  the  Wind's  alarms, 


INYAN  KARA. 


97 


O  Thou,  my  Inyan  Kara, 

Thou  Mount,  from  vanished  sea, 
To  meet  my  Arla-Eeka, 

In  dreams  I  fly  to  thee; 
O  Thou,  where  ne'er  I'll  wander, 

To  list  to  plaintive  pine, 
Nor  scale  thy  sunlit  summit, 

To  kneel  to  warrior  shrine. 


98 


LYRICS   OF   THE   LARIAT. 


Oh,  I  often  dream 

Of  the  happy,  happy  golden  hours, 
Whiled  away, 

Gaily  whiled  away, 
When,  with  romping  ones, 

Seeking  dainty,  dainty,  fairy  flow'rs, 
I  would  stray, 

Idly  I  would  stray; 
And,  with  glee  untold, 

Caroled  many,  many,  simple  songs, 
Childish  songs, 

Simple,  childish  songs;  — 


WHILE  I  DREAM.  99 

Ah,  those  joys  of  old, 

Come  in  wooing,  wooing,  cheering  throngs, 
While  I  dream, 

While  I  sweetly  dream. 

Oh,  I  often  dream, 

As  the  lurking,  lurking  imps  of  care, 
Haunt  my  way, 

Grimly   haunt  my   way, 
Of  the  darling  ones, 

Who  my  heavy,  heavy  trials  share, 
Day  by  day, 

Kindly,  day  by  day; 
Then  a  hand  above, 

Conquers  ev'ry,  ev'ry  lurking  foe, 
Haunting  foe, 

Lurking,  haunting  foe, 
And  the  rays  of  love, 

Make  my  dreary,  dreary  pathway  glow, 


100  LTRICS   OF   THE   LA  Iff  AT. 

While  I  dream, 

While  I  sweetly  dream. 

Oh,  I  often  dream 

Of  the  final,  final  end  of    strife, 
Soon  to  be, 

Very  soon  to  be, 
When  the  shining  ones, 

Thro'  the  blessed,  blessed  gates  of  "life, 
Come  for  me, 

Gladly  come  for  me; 
Then,  where  none   repine, 

I  will  ever,  ever  surely  dwell, 
Safely  dwell, 

Surely,  safely  dwell, 
And,  with  bliss  divine, 

Hear  the  holy,  holy  anthems  swell, 
While  I  dream, 

While  I  sweetly  dream. 


FIELD    OF  LIFE. 


101 


i«ld  of  Lfife. 


The  world  is  a  field,  where  trials  abound, 
And  errors  are  met,  and  evils  are  found; 
And  soldiers  of  Right,  must  ever  be  strong, 
In  smiting  to  earth,  the  vassals  of  Wrong. 


The  valiant  alone,  may  victories  win, 
In  fighting  the  hosts  of  treacherous  sin, 
As  faltering  arm  ne'er  parries  a  blow, 
Nor  craven  of  heart,  ne'er  conquers  a  foe. 


102 


LJ'ff/CS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


But  when  we  have  fought  and  victories  won, 
And  all  of  our  deeds  are  worthily  done, 
The  Father  divine,  will  give  as  a  prize, 
A  beautiful  home  where  Joy  never  dies. 

And  then,  from  the  throne   of    jasper  and  gold, 
The  good  we   have  done,  will  gladly  be  told; 
And  all  of  the  love,  we've  planted  in  gloom, 
Will  blossom  in  light,  and  evermore  bloom. 


WHAT  IS  MAN? 


103 


02ar2? 


An  Alchemist, 
Who  wields  the  wonder-working  stone; 

A  Worshiper, 
Who  meekly  bows  at  Mammon's  throne; 

A  Monarchist, 
Who  basely  wills  that  gold  should  reign; 

A  Laborer, 
Who  meanly  dies  the  slave  of  Gain. 


HIGH  MASS   OF    77/E  MUSES. 


I05 


°P 


N  careless  mood,  I  chanced  to  roam, 
Near  wonderland's  majestic  dome, 
That  long  had    stood,  a  soldier  stern, 
To  ward  the  sons  of  storied   Berne. 


The  sun  had  gone  to  dreamful  rest, 
Behind  a  silvered  mountain-crest; 
And  balmy  eve,  with  smile  serene, 
Had  gently  veiled  the  valleys  green. 

'Twas  then  the  time,  as  darkness  grew. 
And  verdure  quaffed  the  nectar  dew, 
That  many  sought  that  stately  pile, 
An  idle  hour  to  there  beguile. 


106  LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


While  yet  I  roamed,  the  minster  bell 
Sent  forth,  afar,  o'er  mount  and  dell, 
A  voice  that  strangely  seemed  to  say: 
The  Muses  hold  High  Mass  to-day. 

And  then,  tho'  faint  the  light  had  grown, 
I  marked   that  poem,  wrought  in  stone, 
Whose  tower  low,  seemed  ill,  a  part 
Of  that  rare  mold  of    gothic  art. 

Ere  yet  the  bell  had  ceased  to  woo, 
And  o'er  the  crags  had  tongued  "  adieu," 
I  paused  to  note,  then  joined  the  tide, 
That  drifted  thro'  the  entrance  wide. 

No  flaming  jets,  with  dazzling  glare, 
Then  welcomed  those  who  gathered  there, 
But  feeble  tapers  gleamed  on  high, 
Like  twinkling  lights  in  vaulted  sky. 


HIGH  MASS    OF   THE   MUSES.  107 


The  Muses  famed,  those  mystic  maids, 
Then  wandered  thro'  the  ghostly  shades, 
And   sung  a  simple,  winning  song, 
That  held  entranced,  the  list'ning  throng. 

And  e'en  as  yet  the  maidens  sang, 
A  herald  call  of  triumph,  rang, 
And  martial  strains  re-echoed   then, 
Like  bugle  notes  in  Alpine  glen. 

But  soon  there  came  an  angry  jar, 
That  seemed  to  come  from  tempest  car, 
And  then  a  storm,  in  fury,  broke, 
With  clash  and  clang  of  cymbal  stroke. 

The  god  of  winds,  unloosed  the  breeze, 
And  hidden  hands  swept  magic  keys, 
While  brazen  mouths  gave  startling  blare, 
And  wizard  notes  seemed  everywhere. 


lo8  LTRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


Then  bassoons  laughed  and  viols  sighed, 
And  trombones  sobbed  and   hautboys  cried, 
And  clarinets,  with   voices  shrill, 
Repeating,  mocked  the  flute's  soft  trill. 

As  e'en  I  list,  in  half  day-dream, 
Methought  I  heard  a  purling  stream, 
And  zephyrs,  whisp'ring  o'er  the  leas, 
And  songsters,  warbling  in  the  trees. 

Methought  I  roved  in  sylvan  bow'rs, 
Amid  the  fragrant,  fairy  flow'rs, 
While  harp  and  lute  and  ancient  lyre, 
Made  music  sweet  as  siren  choir. 

Still,  o'er  the  sounds,  so  weird,  so  wild, 
The  Muses'  song  came  soft  and  mild, 
And  yet,  in  tone,  so  rich,  so  clear, 
'Twas  off'ring  fit  for  angel's  ear. 


Hf(i /I  MASS   OF   THE  MUSES.  109 

And  yet  the  witching  song  went  on, 
Till  other  sounds  were  hushed  and  gone, 
And  then,  tho'  mourned  hy  fond  Delight, 
Its  spirit  winged  its  upward  flight. 

Thus  closed  the  song: 

"All  hail,  to  thee, 
Apollo,  thou  god  of  harmony ; 
Thou  dwellest  apart  in  shady  nooks, 
Where  revel  the  fays  and  babbling  brooks; 
Thou  knowest  the  notes  of  heav'n  and   earth, 
For,  Patron,  'twas  thou  who  gave  them  birth. 

Thou  tunest  our  harps  on  sacred  mount, 
And  quenchest  our  thirst  at  inspired    fount; 
Thou  guidest  our  feet  where'er  we  go, 
And  ever  we  joy  thy  will  to  know; 
So,  whither  we  roam,  we  sing    to  thee, 
Apollo,  thou  god  of  harmony." 


HO  LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


When  Maidens'  voice  had  ceased  to  ring, 
And  restful  night  had  spread  her  wing, 
Each  one  went  forth  with  rapture  filled, 
Who  whiled  that  hour  where  music  thrilled. 

For  fifty  years,  a  monarch  there, 
Had  ruled,  with  song,  that  haunt  of  pray'r; 
And  hearts  that  came  in  earthly  chains, 
He  quickly  freed  with  heav'nly  strains. 

And  all  those  sounds  —  of  lyre,  of  lute, 
Of  breeze,  of  brook,  of  harp,  of  flute, 
Of  song,  of  storm,  of  warblers'  trill  — 
Were  organ-notes,  made  by  his  skill. 

Then  wreath  of  renown, 
Let  earth 

Now   bring, 


HIGH  MASS  OF   THE  MUSES,  I  I  I 

And  garland  thy  crown, 
Of  worth, 

O  King! 
Let  Rapture  rejoice 

To  list  thy   lays, 
And  Echo  give  voice 

To  swell  thy  praise  ; 
May  seraphim    sing 

The  strains  of  thine, 
And  ever  yet  ring 

Thy  notes  divine. 


112 


LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


v 


Tho'  the  world  is  abloom, 

In  the  heart  there  is  gloom, 
And  lips  of  gladness  are  dumb, 

For  the  land  of    the  brave, 

Is  a  prey  to  the  knave, 
Who  murders  his  brother  with  rum. 

By  the  bright,  sunny  way, 
Where  the  youth  are  at  play, 

There  dwells,  in  splendor,  a  foe, 
That  allures  and  beguiles, 
And  depraves  and  defiles, 

And  revels  in  visions  of  woe. 


GARLAND    THE 


In  the  thrill  of  the  wine, 
And  the  spell  of  the  vine, 

There  seems  no  sorrow  nor  care, 
But  the  dregs  of  the  bowl, 
Are  the  tears  of  the  soul, 

Awakened  by  frenzied  despair. 

Let  us  strike  with  a  will, 
At  the  hosts  of  the  still, 

Let  us  strike,  for  the  foe  is  at  hand, 
And  delight  will  resound, 
For  the  right  will  be  crowned, 

And  beauty  will  garland  the  land. 


114  L TRIGS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 

A  Suffragist  Sufferer. 

Ach,  frau,  mein  frau,  mein  Hebe  frau, 
Such  dricks,  as  dese,  I  don't  allow; 
You  go  so  soon,  und  sthay  so  late, 
Unt  makes  poor  Fritz  for  supper  vait; 
.    Unt  neffer  makes  de  fires  no  more, 
Nor  chops  de  vvoot,  like  once  pefore; 
Unt  say,  vat  use  hab  men  for  fraus,- 
Ven  dey,  demselves,  must  milk  de  cows? 
Ach,  donner,  how  I  hates  dose    men, 
Dat  gomes  here  dwenty  dimes  again, 
Unt  dakes  you  off  pefore  mein  eyes, 
No  madder  how  dot  paby  cries; 
Unt,  frau,  I  dells  you  vat  I  says: 
Iv  you  don't  sthop  dose  horrit  vays, 
I'll  for  dose  fellers  chust  will  lie, 
Unt  gick  meinself  unt  plack  mein  eye, 
Unt  den  yourself  gone  det  you'll  see, 
Veil  hanging  on  von  hazel  dree. 


THE    TWO    TRIOS. 


"5 


The  Trio  of  sirens  were  queens  of  the  sea, 
That  conquer'd  the  waters  by  rugged  Capri; 
Then  govern'tl  their  kingdom,  so  famous  and  strong, 
Thro'  power  of  magic — the  magic  of  song. 


Those  consorts  of  Pluto,  were  fair  to  behold; 
Their  ebon-hued  tresses  were  fretted  with  gold; 
Their  innocent  faces  were  haloed  with  light; 
Their  heavenly  glances  put  darkness  to  flight. 


n6  LTR/CS    OF    THE   LA  If I  AT. 


Their  words  were  as  winning  as  angel  e'er  spoke; 
Their  notes  were  as  thrilling  as  goddess  e'er  woke; 
Their  tones  were  so  wooing  that  none  ever  tried 
To  pass  by  unheeding  —  all   hearkened  and  died. 

Those  mystical  maidens,  with  only  a  breath, 
The  fearless  and   mighty  deliver'd   to  death; 
They  smilingly  fettered  the  noble  and  proud, 
Then  gave  the  enchanted  a  billowy  shroud. 

The  homeward-bound  sailor,  who  paused  on  his  oar, 
To  hear  their  sweet  voices,ne'er  gained  the  lov'd  shore ; 
The  hero,  whose  prowess  had  won  the  world's  praise, 
To  Lethe  they  wafted  by  beautiful  lays. 

Those  queens  so  beguiling,  allured  to  destroy; 
Their  wands  were  of  upas,  to  slay  was  their  joy; 
Their  coral -paved  kingdom  was  only  a  grave 
That  cruelly  welcomed  the  victim  they  gave. 


THE    TWO    TRIOS. 


Those  sirens  accursed,  now  govern  no  more, 
They,  too,  are  sepulchred  where  surging  waves  roar: 
Tho'  sisters,  more  cruel,  their  flags  have  unfurl'd 
To  conquer  and  ruin  a  perishing  world. 

Those  others  are  Avarice,  Envy  and  Hate,  — 
The  one,  a  grim  tyrant,  no  power  can  sate, 
The  second,  a  dragon,  the  parent  of   woe, 
The  other,  a  demon,  a  murderous   foe. 

The  hand  of  the  tyrant  e'er  crushes  the  heart; 
The  tongue  of  the  dragon  is  Satan's  own  dart; 
The  fangs  of  the  demon  give  quickly  and  sure 
The  wound  that  no  Mercy  nor  Pardon  can  cure. 

Those  rulers  e'er  offer,  with  scoffing  and  sneers, 
To  sorrowing  mortals,  a  goblet  of  tears; 
They  wither  the  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  soul; 
They  madden  and  anguish,  to  damn  is  their  goal. 


IlS  LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


HOPC'5    OFFERING. 

Set  free  from  sin's  beguiling  snare, 
Set  free  from  loads  of  grinding  care, 
Set  free  from  bonds  of  grim  despair, 
We  shall  true  pleasure  share. 

Above  the  depths  where  troubles  flow, 
Above   the  plains  where  sorrows  grow, 
Above  the  heights  of  somber  woe, 
We  shall  of  heaven  know. 

Beside  the  waters,  cool  and    sweet, 
Beside  the  throne  where  loved  ones  meet, 
Beside  the  dear-bought  mercy-seat, 
We  shall  the  Savior  greet. 


LAND    OF  REST. 


LAND  Of  REST, 


BLESSED  Realm, 

Where  all  may  be, 
With  eye  of    faith, 

We  look  to  thee; 
O,  smiling  Land, 

Of  holy  throngs, 
With  ear  of  hope, 

We  hear  thy  songs; 
O,  heav'nly  Home, 

A  message  blest, 
Invites  to  thee  — 

The  Land  of  Rest. 


120 


LTfffCS    OF    THE   LARIAT. 


I  wandered  in  the  northland, 
Where  lakes,  enchanting,  slept, 

While  o'er  the  day  expiring, 
The  eve,  in  silence,  wept; 

And  as  the  starry  soldiers 

Came  forth  to  guard    the  sky, 


THE   LOON   CRT.  121 

I  heard  a  voice  repeating 

The  strange  and  truthful  cry: 
Only  a  fool  I  see, 
A  fool,  a  fool  I  see!  — 
Thus  sung  the  loon  to  me, 
The  loony  loon  to  me. 

And  as  that  cry  re  -  echoed, 

I   thought  of   ladies  fair, 
Of  those  with  powdered  faces, 
Who  spoil   their  lovely  hair, 
And  lace  themselves  so  tightly, 
They  can  but  barely  sigh; — 
Poor  things,  they,  too,  should  listen, 
And  hear  the  truthful  cry: 
Only  a  fool  I  see, 
A  fool,  a  fool   I  see!  — 
Thus  sung  the  loon  to  thee, 
The  loony  loon  to  thee. 


122  LTRICS   OF  THE  LARIAT. 

And  then  I  thought  of  others, 

Of  youths  with  slender  canes, 
Who  smoke  cigars  so  proudly, 

And  wear  such  massive  chains, 
And  stand  upon  the  corners, 
To  see  the  girls  go  by;  — 
Poor  things,  they,  too,  should  listen, 
And  hear  the  truthful  cry: 
Only  a  fool  I  see, 
A  fool,  a  fool  I  see!  — 
Thus  sung  the  loon  to  thee, 
The  loony  loon  to  thee. 

And  then  I  thought  of  others, 
Of  those  with  wealth  untold, 

Who  sell  their  souls  for  money, 
And  worship  only  gold; 

Who  have  no  tears  for  sorrow, 
And  wipe   no  weeping  eye;  — 


THE  LOON  CRT.  123 

Poor  things,  they,  too,  should  listen, 
And  hear  the  truthful  cry: 
Only  a  fool  I  see, 
A  fool,  a  fool  I  see!  — 
Thus  sung  the  loon  to  thee, 
The  loony  loon  to  thee. 

And  then  I  thought  of  others, 

Of  those  with  hopes  of  fame, 
Who  seem  to  think  that  honor 

May  come  thro'  sin  and  shame; 
Who  basely  bribe  the  voter, 

And  God  and  man  defy;  — 
Poor  things,  they,  too,  should  listen, 
And  hear  the  truthful  cry: 
Only  a  fool  I  see, 
A  fool,  a  fool  I  see!  — 
Thus  sung  the  loon  to  thee, 
The  loony  loon  to  thee. 


124 


LYRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


Ah  well,  we  all,  insanely, 

Go  rushing  on   thro'  life, 
Pursuing  fleeting  pleasure, 

Thro'  days  and  years  of  strife; 
But  ere  we  grasp  the  phantom, 

We  stumble,  fall  and  die;  — 
Poor  things,  we  all   should  listen, 
And   hear  the  truthful  cry: 
Only  a  fool   I  see, 
A  fool,  a  fool   I  see!  — 
Thus  sung  the  loon   to  me, 
The  loony   loon   to  thee. 


O   GIVE  ME    TOUR  HAND.  125 


When  night  has  veiled  the  earth,  so  fair, 
And  hosts  of  heaven  are  guarding  the  land, 

The  boy  repeats  his  ev'ning  prayer, 

Then  says:    Dear  Mamma,  O  give  me  your  hand. 

And  when  his  youthful  days  are  done, 

Tho'  proud   and  stately,  no  ruler  more  grand, 

He  yields  the  heart  to  some  fair  one, 

And  pleads:    My  Idol,  O  give  me  your  hand. 


126 


LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIA7\ 


And  when,  to  him,  the  world  is  drear, 

And  waves  of  sorrow,  break  over  life's  strand, 

He  seeks,  at  home,  for  words  of  cheer, 

And  sighs:  My  Darling,  O  give  me  your  hand. 

And  when,  the  cares  of   life  are  o'er, 

And  round  him,  weeping,  the  loving  ones  stand, 
He  bids  his  friends  to  grieve  no  more, 

Then  prays:  Dear  Father,  O  give  me  Your  Hand. 


~! 


THE  FATHER  SEETH  ALL.  127 


Patter* 


In  the  days  when  we  are  building 

Stately  castles  in  the  air, 
And  when  youthful  joys  enrapture, 

And  no  clouds  are  seen  of  care, 
We  should  heed  the  voice  of  heaven, 

Ere  the  sins  of  earth  enthrall, 
And,  thro'  life,  fore'er  remember 

That  the  Father  sceth  all. 

And  when  time  has  borne  us  onward, 

To  the  fields  of  ripened  age,     * 
Where  the  mighty  hosts  are  gathered, 

And  for  food  the  battle  wage, 
And  where  few  may  fill  their  garners, 

While  the  rest   for  succor  call, 
We  should  surely  then  remember 

That  the  Father  seeth  all. 


128  LYRICS   OF   THE   LARIAT. 


Should  we  safely  ride  the  waters, 

While  the  foamy  billows  rave, 
And  neglect  to  pause  for  others, 

Who  are  wrecked  upon  the  wave, 
When  we  near  the  icy  ocean, 

On  whose  bosom   floats  the  pall, 
We  will   sadly  then  remember 

That  the  Father  seeth  all. 

And  at  last,  when  toil   is  over, 

And  we've  crossed  the  vale  of  years, 
If  for  others  we  have  labored, 

And  have  helped  to  dry  their  tears, 
Tho'  the  sweets  our  lips  have  tasted, 

May  have  seemed  to  turn  to  gall, 
We  will   gladly  then   remember 

That  the  Father  seeth  all. 


THE    UNFAILING   CRUSE. 


129 


THE  UNFAILING  CRUSE. 


When  thy  cares  are   pressing, 
And  when  joy  withholds  its  blessing, 

Should  some  one  be  weeping, 
O'er  the  hopes  behind  him  sleeping, 

Dry  the  tears  then  welling, 
Kindly  all  his  grief  dispelling, 


A    THIRTY    TEARS'  DREAM.  131 


A    THIRTY    YEARS'   DREAM." 

Where  is  that    little  school -house,  Alf, 

That  stood  beside  the  lane? 
I  looked  for  it  to-day,  but,  strange, 

I  looked  for  it  in  vain; 
It  may  have  been   I  could  not  see, 

For  something  made  me  weep, 
But  if  I  saw,  then  I  have  had 

A  Rip  Van   Winkle  sleep. 

We  were  but  school  -  boys  yesterday  — 

At  least,  to  me,  it  seems 
As  if  a  single  fleeting  night 

Now  dims  our   boyhood  dreams; 
Then  why  say  you  that  we're  not  young? 

You  know  you  can't  be  right, 
For  boys  don't  grow  to  bearded   men, 

At  once,  in  one  short  night. 


132  LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Ah,  Alf,  what  splendid  times  we've  had 

Within  that  school   house  old! 
We  there  have  played  most  roguish   tricks  — 

The  half  were  never  told! 
Each  object  in  that  humble  room, 

We've  hallow'd  with  our  sins;  — 
You  know,  last  week  the  teacher  sat 

Upon  some  crooked  pins. 

We've  marred  the  desks  and  notched  the  seats 

With  jack-knives  sharp  and  bright, 
And  cuffed  our  books  and  scratched  our  slates, 

As  school  -  boys  have  the  right ; 
And  if  it  chanced  that  now  and  then, 

The  teacher  boxed  our  ears, 
We  scarcely  cared,  for  joy  was  nigh 

To  kiss  away  our  tears. 


A    THIRTY   TEARS^  DREAM.  133 


At  twelve  o'clock  —  that  blessed  hour, 

When  time  for  play  begun  — 
We  sallied   forth   with  bounding    hearts, 

Intent  on  having  fun; 
At  times  we  sought  the  woods  near  by, 

To  plague  the  wary  squirrels, 
At  other  times,  we  loitered  round 

To  plague  the  chary  girls. 

The  fort  we  built,  not  long  ago, 

Was  strong  and  finely  planned, 
And  those  brave  lads  who  stormed   it,  Alf, 

Declared  it  was  well  manned; 
For  tho'  they  far  outnumbered   us, 

We  yet  fought  long  and  well, 
But  when  our  balls  of  snow  gave  out, 

Of  course  our  colors  fell. 


'34 


LTRTCS    OF    THE   LARIAT. 


Last  week   we  helped  the  girls  to  build 

Their  play-house  all  anew; 
Then   furnished  it  with  mossv   seats, 

And  soft,  green  carpets,  too; 
And   made  a  cupboard   with  one  shelf, 

To  hold  their  china-ware;  — 
Don't   you  suppose,  when   we  are  gone 

A  fairy  queen  lives  there? 


A    THIRTY   YEARS'  DREAM.  135 


When  yesterday,  our  school  was  out, 

I  bounded  thro'  the  door 
Of  that  old   house,  with  gladsome  shout, 

Nor  cared  to  see  it  more; 
And  then,  at  nine,  I  went  to  bed, 

With  heart  all  filled  with  joy, 
For  mother's  voice  had  softly  said: 

Good  night,  my  darling  boy! 

And  then  I  heard  a  gentle  song  — 

"Lie  still,  my  child,  and  sleep!" 
But  soon  the  song  seemed  more  a  prayer- 

"  May  heav'n  thy  footsteps  keep!" 
And  then   I  dreamed   a  troubled  dream, 

Of  fancies  strange  and   wild ; 
I  thought  I  ceased,  at  once,  to  be 

A  laughing,  romping  child. 


136  LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


I  dreamed   I  moved  away  out  West — 

As  oft  I've  longed  to  do — 
And  met  and  loved  a  schoolma'm  there, 

And  wooed  and  won   her  too; 
And  then  I  thought  a  girl  and  boy 

Came  climbing  on  my  knee, 
And,  strange  to  say,  my  friends  declared 

Those  children   looked  like  me. 

And  then  my  fancy  bore  me  on, 

O'er  many  a  stranger  land ; 
It  carried '  me  o'er  ocean  waves, 

O'er  vales  and  mountains  grand; 
And  ere  I   turned  my  rambling  feet, 

To  take  the  homeward  way, 
I  thought  the  icy  breath  of  age, 

Had  tinged  my  hair  with  gray. 


A    THIRTY  YEARS1  DREAM.  137 


When  I  awoke,  I  felt  so  worn, 

I  could   not  help  but  cry ; 
And  schooltime,  Alf,  still  found  me  sad — 

I   really  can't  tell  why! 
And   then   I  went,  with  heavy  heart, 

To  meet  my  comrades  dear, 
And  found  that  e'en  the  house  was  gone, 

And  not  a  soul  came  near. 

And  as,  perplexed,  I  waited   there, 

The  cars  went  thund'ring  o'er 
The  very  grounds  on  which  we  played 

A  single  night  before. — 
Now  tell  me,  Alf,  how  comes  all  this? 

Who  took  the  house  away? 
What  has  become  of  all   the  boys? 

Where  are  the  girls  to   day? 
*         *         * 


'38 


LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Alas,  say  you  my  dream  was  true, 

And  that  our  youth  has  fled? 
That  all   the  hoys  and   girls  are  gone, 

Or  rest  among  the  dead  ? 
Then,  truly,  Alf,   I've  sweetly  dreamed 

A  score  of  years  and   ten;  — 
O,  would  that   I   could  dream   for  aye, 

That  we  were  boys  again. 


DO  NOT  FEAR.  139 


Do 


Fainting  one,  on  foamy  sea, 
Reaching  out  its  arms  for  thee, 
Do  not  fear  the  angry  wave, 
For  a  Friend  thy  bark  will  save. 

Dreary  one,  in  desert  lone, 
List'ning  to  the  wind's  sad   moan, 
Do  not  fear,  tho'  bleak  the  sky, 
For  a  Friend  is  standing  nigh. 

Weary  one,  in  depths  of  woe, 
Wand'ring  as  the  shadows  grow, 
Do  not  fear  the  gath'ring  night, 
For  a  Friend  will  give  thee  light. 


LOVE. 


141 


When  the  cheeks  of  morn  are  glowing, 

None  may  bid  the  blush    be  gone, 
And  when  eyes  of  eve  are  paling, 

None  may  bid  the  light  stream  on ; 
So,  when  Love  comes  stealing  coyly, 

None  may   frown  the  sprite  away, 
And,  when  Love  would  play  the  truant, 

None  may  coax  the  rogue  to  stay. 


142 


LYRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


O,  Care,  while  hearts  before  you  are  bending, 
The  Voice  of  Hope  its  message  is  sending, 

To  flood  dull  eyes  with  visions  of  beauty, 
And  nerve  the  arm  by  challenge  to  duty. 


O,   Want,  while  gloom   about  you  is  falling, 
The   Voice  of  Hope  is  tenderly  calling, 

To  drive  the  clouds  from   hearts  of  the  dreary, 
And  woo  the  dreams  that  strengthen  the  wearv. 


THE    VOICE   OF  HOPE,  143 

O,  Grief,  while  tears  are  telling  your  sadness, 
The  Voice  of  Hope  sends  radiant  gladness, 

To  hush  the  moans  of  murmuring  sorrow, 

And  blush  the  now  with  rays  of  the  morrow. 

O,  Woe,  while  mounds  beneath  you  are  springing, 
The  Voice  of  Hope  is  soothingly   ringing, 

To  lift  the  soul  where  joys  are  unending, 
And  loves  of  earth,  in  oneness,  are  blending. 

O,  Voice,  rejoice  and  echo  forever, 

To  thrill   the  will   with  dauntless  endeavor; 

And  sing  and  wing  the  beautiful  story, 

That  still  shall  fill  the  world  with  new  glorv. 


H4  LTRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


JOYLESS  YOUTH. 

I   feel  quite  sure  the  children   now, 

Know   naught  of  childish  joys, 
For   I   ne'er  see  a  girlish  girl, 

Nor  hear  of  boyish  boys; 
Indeed,  they   look  so  very  odd, 

I  fancy  they   are  elves, 
That  chase  the  darkness  from  our  skies, 

Yet  live  in  gloom  themselves. 

In  summer  time,  the  lads  incase 

Their  feet  in   useless  shoes  — 
As  wise  'twould  be  to  shield  the  grass 

From   God's  refreshing  dews; 
And  then   they   are  so  richly  clad, 

And  do  not  care  to  romp, 
Not  knowing  that  an   hour  of  joy, 

Outweighs  an  age  of  pomp. 


jo  r LESS  rouTH.  145 


We  used  to  call  the  little  maids 

Forget  -  me  -  nots,  so  dear, 
But  girls  are  now   like  jewel  -  weeds, 

Those  touch-me-nots,  so  queer; 
For  foolish  fashion  decks  them  out, 

In  jewels,  silks  and  lace, 
And  gives  to  them  a  jaunty  look, 

But  ne'er  a  lovely  face. 

In  dear  old  times,  our  parents  said, 

If  we  could  write  and  read, 
And  cipher  thro'  the  rule  of  three, 

'Twas  all  we  e'er  would  need; 
The  brain  was  ne'er  overburdened  then, 

The  youthful    heart   was  light; 
The  cheek  by  blushing   health  was  kissed, 

The  eye  with  joy  was  bright. 


146  LTRICS   OF   THE   LARIAT. 


It  was  with  digits  we  were  taught 

To  reckon,  when  at  school, 
But  now  it  seems  that  wiser  heads 

Have  wrought  a  wiser  rule; 
For  when,  last  week,   I   chanced  to  go 

To  school,  on  closing  day, 
I   saw  a  scholar  working  sums 

In  some  new-fashioned  way. 

Thus,  he  declared  and  said  he  proved 

That  a,  b,  minus  c, 
Just  equaled  d,  plus  e,  f  square, 

When   multiplied  by  g; 
Of  course  his  words  were  wondrous  wise, 

Of  that  I  had  no  doubt, 
But  why  and  how  he  figured  so, 

I  failed   to  figure  out. 


jo  r LESS  ruuTH.  147 


A  while  I  watched  his  thoughtful  face, 

And  marked  his  languid  looks, 
Then  said,  "  A  problem  solve  for  me, 

Not  found  within   the  hooks; 
You  seem  to  know   life's  value,  lad, 

Plus  study,  minus  mirth; 
Now,  if,  to  study,  mirth  you  add, 

Then   what  would   life  he  worth  ?  " 

The  young  folks  have  no  time  to-day, 

For  sport  or  childish  dreams; 
Their  only  pastime  seems  to  be 

To  sail  on  classic  streams; 
For  now  they  reap  from  modern  fields, 

And  glean  from  ancient  lore, 
And  feast  their  minds,  on  choicest  fruits, 

Till  brain  will  hold  no  more. 


148  LYRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


The  boldest  heights  that  Thought  has  reared, 

They  now  attempt  to  scale, 
With  far  more  zeal  than  chastened  knight 

E'er  sought  the  Holy  Grail; 
In  short,  they  give  with  lavish  hand, 

The  food  to  feed  the  flame, 
That  glows  within  the  lamp,  hy  which 

Man  finds  his  way  to  fame. 

Altho'  'tis  true  that  knowledge  lights 

The  road  to  honors  great, 
And    tho'  the  wise  are  best  prepared 

To  break  the  lance  with  fate, 
The  youths  who  strive  to  win   renown, 

But  take  no  time  for  play, 
Will  weary  soon  and  fail  at  last, 

To  bear  the  prize  away. 


HOPE. 


I49 


a  smiling1  sea, 
In  rosy  morn  of  spring, 
Hope  gently  came  to   me, 

On   light  and   silv'ry   wing, 
And  with   her  mystic  wand, 

Entranced  the  bending  skies, 
And,  in  the  bright  beyond, 
Made  splendid  visions  rise; — 
Visions  rise,  joylit  skies. 


150  LT1UCS   OF  THE  LARIAT. 

And  then  my  fancy  flew, 

O'er  wide  and  wooing  plains, 

While  huts  to  castles  grew, 
And  fields  to  vast  domains; 

And   hand  of  siren  fame, 
With  glory   robed  my  days, 

And  nations  gave  acclaim, 

And  sung  me  songs  of  praise; — 
Songs  of  praise,  witching  days. 

Ere  long  the  vision  fled, 
Beyond  a  shoreless  wave, 

And  round  me  grief  was  spread, 
And  near  me  yawned  a  grave, 

While  earth   itself   grew  drear, 
And  face  of  nature  paled, 

And,  o'er  the   fading  year, 

The  notes  of  autumn  wailed;  — 
Autumn  wailed,  loved  ones  paled. 


HOPE. 


1  5  1 


But  soon  across  the  sea, 

Across  the  dreamy  deep, 
Hope  winged  again   to  me, 

Her  plighted  troth  to  keep, 
And   with   her  fairy   wand, 

Swung  hack  the  gates  of  gloom, 
And  morn  eternal  dawned, 

Ahove  a  vanquished   tomb;  —  - 

Vanquished  tomb,  vanished  gloom. 


L TRIGS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


ROVED  in  western  wonder-land, 

Enraptured  by  a  vision  grand, 
Where  wand  of  God,  in  age  unknown, 
Had  swayed  across  an   ocean   zone, 
And  changed  a  vast  and  mighty  deep 
To  boundless  fields  where  millions  reap; 
And  where  the  bird,  with  carol  sweet, 
And  plumage  bright  and   pinion   fleet, 
Flew    gaily  on,  its  love  to  greet; 
And  while  I  roved,  a  curlew,  coy, 
With  breast  of  gold  and  heart  of  joy, 


THE   CURLEW  SONG.  153 


Swept  on  before,  and  sung  and  sang 
The  happy  song,  that  rung  and  rang: 
I  bathe  my  wing  in  pearlv  dew, 
And  sing  and  sing,  dear  mate,  for  you; 
I  cleave  the  air  when  foe  is  nigh, 
Nor  care,  nor  care,  dear  mate,  have  I. 

I   stood   within   the  world  of  trade, 
And  marked  the  cares  by  riches  made; 
I  saw  its  dupes,  in  surging  street, 
Pursuing  wealth,  with  aching  feet; 
I  saw  it  drive  them  madly  on, 
Tho'  weary  day  to  rest   had  gone; 
And  then  I  heard  desponding  sighs, 
And  marked  how  few  had  won  the  prize, 
And  saw  how  wretched  miser  dies; 
And  then  I  thought:    What  slaves  they  are! 
To  be  like  them? — 'twere   better  far, 


154  LYRICS    OF   THE  LAKIAT. 


To  be  the  bird  that  sung  and  sang 
The  happy  song  that  rung  and  rang: 
I  bathe  my  wing  in  pearly  dew, 
And  sing  and  sing,  dear  mate,  for  you; 
I  cleave  the  air  when  foe  is  nigh, 
Nor  care,  nor  care,  dear  mate,  have  I. 

I  strolled  thro'  stately,  gilded  halls, 

And  marked  the  ways  in  siren  balls; 

I  saw,  within  the  mazy  dance, 

The  eye  of  beauty  hotly  glance; 

I  saw  the  cheek  of  manhood  glow, 

Inspired  by  wine  and  passions  low; 
And  then  I  heard  a  tale  of  woe, 
And  marked  a  reeling  drunkard  go, 
And  saw  a  wanton,  wicked  blow; 

And  then   I  thought:  What  knaves  they  are! 

To  be  like  them? — 'twere  better  far, 


THE   CURLEW  SONG.  155 


To  be  the  bird  that  sung  and  sang 
The  happy  song  that  rung  and  rang: 
I  bathe  my  wing  in  pearly  dew, 
And  sing  and  sing,  dear  mate,  for  you ; 
I  cleave    the  air  when  foe  is  nigh, 
Nor  care,  nor  care,  dear  mate,  have  I. 

And  then  I  roamed  'mid  real  worth, 

And  marked  the  scenes  where  joy  has  birth; 

I  saw  the  laughing  eye  of  youth, 

Reflect  the  light  of  holy  truth; 

I  saw  the  eve  of  life  come  on, 

And  bring  a  hope  of  golden  dawn; 
And  then   I  heard  the  voice  of  song, 
And  marked  a  land  unruled  by   wrong, 
And  saw  a  glad,  contented  throng; 

And  then  I  thought:    How  wise  they  are! 

To  be  like  them  were  better  far, 


156 


LYRICS   OF   THE   LARIAT. 


Than  be  the  bird  that  sung  and  sang 
The  happy  song,  that  rung  and  rang: 
I  bathe  my   wing   in   pearly  dew, 
And  sing,  and  sing,  dear   mate,  for  you; 
I  cleave  the  air  when   foe  is  nigh, 
Nor  care,  nor  care,  dear  mate,  have  I. 


SAILING  ^ NEATH  THE   CROSS.  157 


When  you  leave  the  harbor,  in  the  glow  of  morning, 
Thinking  not  of  danger,  dreaming  not  of  loss, 

Hear  you  then  the  Master  give  the  gentle  warning: 
Sailor,  make  thv  voyage,  sailing  'neath  the  cross. 

When  you  ride  the  ocean,  storms  around  you  heating, 
Battling  with  the  billows,  that  in  fury  toss, 

Hear  you  then   the  Master   lovingly  entreating: 
Sailor,    seek   for  safety,  sailing  'neath   the  cross, 

When  you  sight  the  haven,  with  a  joy  enthralling, 
Bringing  golden  treasure,  unalloyed  by  dross, 

Hear  you  then  the  Master,  o'er  the  waters,  calling: 
Sailor,  speed  thy  nearing,  sailing  'neath  the  cross. 


158  LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


I'LL  SING. 

I'll  sing  in  the  morning 

A  song  to  the  King, 
Whose  magic  awakened 

The  slumbering   spring; 
Whose  fiat    has  given 

The  streamlets  their  birth, 
Whose  pencil  is  painting 

The  flowers  of  earth. 

I'll  sing  in  the  morning 

A  song  to  the  One, 
Whose  splendor  is  mirrored 

In  dewdrop  and  sun; 
Whose  smiling  is  answered 

By  mountain  and   plain, 
Whose  glory  is  murmured 

By  billows  of  grain. 


SING.  159 


I'll  sing  in  the  morning 

A  song  to  the  Lord, 
Whose  bounty  has  given 

The  reapers  reward; 
Whose  fountains  have  flooded 

The  meadows  with  gold, 
Whose  goodness  and  mercy 

Can  never  be  told. 

I'll  sing  in  the  morning 

A  song  to  the  Guide, 
Whose  mandate  can  silence 

The  tempest  and  tide; 
Whose  presence  is  sunlight 

In  winter  and  gloom, 
Whose  pleasure  makes  Eden 

Eternally  bloom. 


i6o 


LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Pll  praise    The  Redeemer, 

In  days  of  the  spring, 
And  praise  Him  in  summer, 

When  boughs  gently  swing, 
And  praise  Him  in  autumn, 

When  leaves  are  a  -  iving, 
And  praise  Him  in  winter, — 

Tes,  ever  Pll  sing. 


PANDORA. 


161 


J    ^    r 


With  tireless  tread,  Pandora  goes, 
And  bears,  with  pride,  the  box  of  woes 
She  brought,  to  earth,  to  give  the  one 
Who  mocked  the  gods  and  robbed  the  sun. 

That  dowry  gift  supplies  her  well, 
With  human  hurts  —  those  imps  of  hell; 
And  so  she  wends  thro'  ev'ry  land, 
And  deals  out  ills  with  lavish   hand. 


1 62  L  TRIGS    OF   THE   L  Alt  I  AT. 


She   finds  her  way  to  hut  and   hall, 
And  flings  a  tear  to  great  and  small; 
And  e'en  as  buds  by  frosts  are  killed, 
So  hearts,  of  love,  by  her  are  stilled. 

And   vet  within   her  box  of  pain, 
Of  hope,  there   lies  one  golden  grain, 
And  he  to  whom  she  gives  a  woe, 
May  find  the  gem  concealed   below. 

And  he  who  gains  that  golden  gift, 
In  sorrow's  cloud  will  see  the  rift; 
And  tho'  he  treads  the  vale  of  gloom, 
Will  scent  the  rose  of  rare  perfume. 

O.  thankless  one,  then  thankful  be, 
Nor  scorn  the  grief  she  brings  to  thee: 
For  tho'  she  wounds  thy   tender  heart, 
She  offers  balm  to  cure  the  smart. 


BAIT. 


163 


In  the  streams  of  life 

that  swiftly  glide, 
Where  the  hooks  are  cast 

for  honors  great, 
Tho'  the  few   may  land 

the  game  with  pride, 
All  the  rest  of  earth 

must  cut  the  bait. 


164  LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


For  the  one  who  holds  the  potent  reel 

O'er  the  depths  that  bear  our  ship  of  state, 

Has  a  need  no  more  to  bless  the  keel 

Than  he  has  the  friends  who  cut  the  bait. 

So,  the  ones  who  seek  for  miser  gold, 

In  the  wake  of  fears  and  dogged  by  hate, 

Gather  up  and  hoard  their  wealth  untold, 
By  the  toil  of  those  who  cut  the  bait. 

And  the  ones  who  own  the  flying  trains, 
That  are  borne  on  wings  of  seeming  fate, 

Hurry  on  the  wheels,  thro'  snows  and  rains, 
By  the  skill  of  those  who  cut  the  bait. 

But  the  man  who  gains  the  final  goal, 

Where  the  wreaths  of  fame  for  victor  wait, 

Very  soon  has  learned  to  wield  the  pole 
With  a  hand  that    knows  to  cut  the  bait. 


CONTENT. 


Where  the  fowl,  with  a  lordly  pride, 

Calls  to  the  drowsy  morn, 
And  the  pig,  with  a  careless  stride, 

Roams  in  a  wealth  of  corn, 
And  the  cow,  in  the  twilight  wan, 

Rests  in  the  narrow    lane, 
And  the  horse,  at  the  blush  of  dawn, 

Feeds  in  the  boundless  plain, 
Remote  from  the  fields  of  strife, 
And  sweet  from  the  Fount  of  life, 
Content,  with  the  grace  of  rhyme, 
Flows  o'er  the  sands  of  time. 


166  LTRICS    OF    THE  LARIAT. 


Where  the  lad,  by  the  limpid  brook, 

Sits  with  a  rural  rod, 
And  the  dog,  in  a  restful   nook, 

Sleeps  on  the  velvet  sod, 
And  the  lark,  with  a  liquid   trill, 

Mounts  to  the   bending  sky, 
And  the  breeze,  with   a  mystic  thrill, 

Makes  to  the  bird  reply, 
Remote  from  the 

fields  of  strife, 
And  glad  from 

the  Source  of  life,   ! 
Content,  with 

a  bliss  divine, 
Bows  at 

a   sylvan 
shrine. 


CONTENT. 


167 


Where  the  light,  on  a  peaceful  scene, 
Falls  where  the  zephyrs    play, 

And  the  wood,  with   a  smile  serene, 
Lies  in  the  arms  of  day, 

And  the  bud,  with  the  rifting  crown, 

• 

Swells  to  the  gorgeous  rose, 
And  the  eve,  in  a  silvered  gown, 

Sinks  to  a  soft  repose, 
Remote  from  the 

fields  of  strife 
And  bright  from 
the  Throne 

of  life, 
Content,  with 

a  wixard  hand, 
Rules  o'er  the 

love-lit  land 


1 68 


L  TRIGS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


KITTY. 


Ah,  my  pet,  so  sweetly  sleeping, 
While  the  phantom  shades  are  creeping, 
Wake  at  once,  for  now  I'm  lonely, 
But  for  you  am   longing  only; — 
Wake,  my   Kitty,  wake. 

Ah,  my  pet, 

so  gently  waking, 
Come  to  me,  your  rug 

forsaking, 

And  my  arms  shall  safely  rest 
Where  no  one  will  dare  molest  you; 

Come,  my   Kitty,  come. 


you 


KITTT. 


169 


Ah,  my  pet,  so  softly  purring, 
Even  tho'  the  mice  are  stirring, 
Sing  to  me,  nor   heed  their  scheming, 
Even  tho'  they  think  you  dreaming; — 
Sing,  my  Kitty,  sing. 


170  LYRICS   OF   THE   LARIAT. 


WHAT? 

What  hope  is  yours,  O  one  with  darling  boy? 
What  dream  is  yours,  that  fills  your  soul  with  joy? 
What  path  is  that,  you  counsel  him  to  tread? 
What  pray'r  is  that,  you  whisper  o'er   his  bed? 

A  hope  that   Worth   will  crown   his  name; 

A  dream  that  Time  will  sing  his  fame; 

A  path  that  sin   has  ne'er  defiled ; 

A  pray'r  for  grace  for  him,  my  child. 

What  hope  is  yours,  O  fond  and  trusting  lad? 
What  dream  is  yours,  that  makes  your  heart  so  glad  ? 
What  path  is  that,  you  vow  you.  e'er  will  keep? 
What  pray'r  is  that,  you  say  before  you  sleep? 

A  hope  that  cheers  like  meed  of  praise; 

A  dream  that  Right  will  guide  my  ways; 

A  path  that  leads  to  heights  above; 

A  pray'r  that  sweeps  the  chords  of   love. 


WHAT? 


What  now  the  hope,  O  worn  and  faithful  one? 
What  now  the  dream  for  him,  your  wayward  son? 
What  now  the  path  he  goes  with  falt'ring  pace? 
What  now  the  pray'r  for  him,  who  sneers  at  grace? 

A  hope  that  ends  in  grief  and  gloom ; 

A  dream  that  tells  of  death  and  doom; 

A  path  where  Furies  rove  and  rave; 

A  pray'r,  to  God,  for  help  to  save. 

What  now  the  hope,  O  man  of  golden  dawn? 
What  now  the  dream   to  spur  and   woo  you  on? 
What  now  the  path  that  yet  before  you  lies? 
What  now  the  pray'r  you  send  to  greet  the  skies? 

A  hope  an  imp  would  dread  to  claim; 

A  dream  of  woe  and  want  and  shame; 

A  path  where  serpents  writhe  and  crawl; 

A  pray'r  for  drink,  a  curse,  is  all. 


:72 


OF   THE   LARIAT. 


I  may  claim  thy  love  alone, 
For  trust  I   will    not  pine, 
As  love  is  but  the  bud  alone, 
That  bursts  to  trust  divine; 
Then  shield  the  bud  of  love  from  cold, 
So  that,  to  full,  it  may   unfold; 
Yes,  ever  guard,  with   tender  care, 
The  bud  that  bursts  to  bloom  so  rare, 
If  with,  or  without  trust. 


HAVE  I    TUT  LOVE. 


'73 


Tho'  free  from  trust,  pure  love  alone, 

lias  often  pleased  and  won, 
But  free  from  love,  sure  trust  alone, 
lias  charmed  and  conquered   none; 
Then  shield  the  bud  of  love  from  cold, 
So  that,  to  full,  it  may  unfold; 
Yes,  ever  guard,  with  tender  care, 
The  bud  that  bursts  to  bloom  so  rare, 
If  with,  or  without  trust. 


174 


1. 1' /tlCS   OF    THE   LA  It  I  AT. 


±L.(\y*~^~^~^~& 


Old   Mammon   is  the  mighty   king, 
Whom  mortals  serve  and   nations  sing, 
And  yet  who  sneers  at  friend  and  foe, 
And   grimly  smiles  at  want  and   woe. 

The  king  is  he,  whose  cruel   reign 
Has  taught  the  heart  to  bow  to  brain; 
And   who  now  breaks,  on  rack  of   greed, 
The  ones  that  yield  him  servile  heed. 

Ay,  he's  the  wretch  who  takes  the  boys, 
And  robs  them  of  their  childhood  joys, 
Then  goads  them  on  like  galley  slaves 
And  scourges  them  to  early  graves. 


MAMMON.  175 


And  he's  the  one,  of  miser  hand, 
Who  gathers  wealth  in  ev'ry  land, 
And  crushes  love  beneath  his  heels, 
Nor  e'en  one  pang  of  pity  feels. 

Ah,  he's  the  king,  of  crimes  untold, 
Who  damns  his  folk  with  curse  of  gold, 
And  ne'er  a  deed,  of  worth,  has  done, 
Nor  paid  the  meed  that  Worth  has  won. 

And  e'er  he  rules  the  vassal  world, 

And  keeps  a  pirate  flag  unfurled, 

And  even  holds  despotic  sway, 

When   Rest  would  claim  her  precious  day. 

Then  down  with  him,  the  sordid  one, 
Who  basely  plans,  from  sun  to  sun, 
To  frighten  sleep  from   teary  eyes, 
And  fill  the  earth  with  weary  sighs. 


176  LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


r,  ho!    we  slip  the  hawser, 

And  loose,  and  launch  the  boat, 
To  speed  upon  the  waters, 

To  joy,  to  dream  and  float; 
For  Fancy  sends  but  pleasure, 

To  cleave,  to  breast  the  deep, 
Where  waves  seem   molten  silver, 

Becalmed,  bewitched  to  sleep. 


THE    V  Or  AGE.  177 


Heigho!    upon  life's  ocean, 

We  race,  we  glide    along, 
And  hail  the  pulsing  billows, 

With  laugh,  with  shout  and  song; 
For  wings  of  snowy  canvas, 

Have  kissed,  have  caught  the  breeze, 
And  bear  us  swiftly  onward, 

To  sing,  to  rule  the  seas. 

But  lo!    we're  sadly  longing 

To  greet,  to  gain  the  shore, 
For  billows  now  are  foaming, 

And  leap,  and  toss  and  roar, 
And  giant  winds  are  wailing 

A  threat,  a  dirge  of   woe, 
And  mighty  depths  are  calling 

To  beds,  to  graves  below. 


LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


But  no!    the  winds  have  vanished, 

To  rave,  to  wail  no  more, 
And  ocean -waves  have  banished 

The  frown,  the  scowl  they  wore, 
And  all  we  weary  farers 

In  port,  in  peace  may  be, 
Where  tempests  do  not  gather, 

To  lash,  to  rouse  the  sea. 

We're  on  lifers  ocean  sailing, 

Sailing  day  by  day, 
And  o^er  the  billo-ws  bounding, 

Botinding  far  aiuay, 
And  tho"1  the  waters  thunder, 

Thunder  ''ncath  the  gale, 
We  yet  may  voyage  safely, 

Safelv  home  may  sail. 


RULER  AND   COMPOSER.  179 


The  Present  truly  seems  unjust, 

For  oft  it  pays  where  naught  is  due, 

And  then  again  lays  claim  to  trust, 

From  those  who've  rendered  service  true. 

It  fawns  on  those  of  princely  birth, 

And  smooths  the  sunny  paths  they  tread, 

And  surfeits  them  on  fat  of  earth, 

While  Merit  dines  on  crusts  of  bread. 

Hut  tho'  it  bows  to  royal  will, 

And  lowly  bends  at  gilded  shrine, 

It  scorns  the  one  whose  magic  skill 

Enchants  the  world   with  chords  divine: 


I  So  LTRICS    OF   THE  LA1UAT. 


Who  sweetly  sings  on  sacred  mount, 
And  stirs  the  pulse  of  Rapture  there, 

And  gladly  fills,  at  fabled  fount, 
The  cup  of  Joy  for  lips  of  Care. 

Who  gladdens  poor  as  well  as  rich, 
For  cottage  writes  as  well  as  hall, 

And  wakens  notes,  that  woo  and  witch 
Alike  in  dance  and  courtly  ball. 

Whose  song  is  like  the  dainty  bloom, 
That  bursts  beside  the  dusty  road, 

And  floods  the  air  with  rich  perfume, 
For  all  who  bear  life's  heavy  load. 

And  yet,  altho'  he  lifts  the  cloud, 
That  darkly   veils   the  face  of  day, 

There  swell,  for  him,  no  plaudits  loud, 
Nor  twines,  for  him,  a  wreath  of  bay. 


RULER   AND   COMPOSER.  l8l 


But  tho'  the  Present  thus  is  dumb, 

When  Right  demands  that  praise  should  ring, 
In  time,  to  he,  Delight  will   come, 

And  o'er  the  tomb  of  Merit  sing. 

The  Present  spreads  o'er  titled   dead, 

A  purple  pall  of  richest  woof, 
And  makes  for  him  a  marble  bed, 

Beneath  the  mausoleum's  roof. 

But  when  the  artist  lays  him  down  — 
His  couch  perchance  a  pauper  bier — 

The  Present  dons  no  sable  gown, 
Nor  deigns  to  shed  a  kindly  tear. 

And  yet,  when  kingly  vault  is  locked, 
The  key  is  thrown  in   Lethe's  wave; 

And  loving  Thought  has  rarely  knocked, 
Where  slumber  those  in  royal  grave. 


182 


LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


But  great  composers  never  die, 

E'en  tho'  their  earthly  race  be  run; 

For  whereso'er  they  live  or  lie, 

There  is,  for  them,  no  setting  sun. 

And  polished  stone  mav  claim  no  part, 
When  artist  wears  the  crown  of,  fame; 

For  then,  within  the  human  heart, 

The  hand  of  God  has  graved  his  name 


ONL  T. 


183 


Only  a  few  little  rays  of  dawn, 

Giving  a  glimmer  of  light; 
Only  a  smile,  and  the  day  is  gone, 

Leaving  the  shadows  of  night; 
So,  gladly  we  cling  to  the  hand  above, 
And  carol  a  song  of  the  morn  of  love. 


Only  a  few  little  strands  of  fate, 

Given  to  mortals  to  spin; 
Only  a  step  to  the  mystic  gate, 

Swinging  its  welcoming-in; 
So,  gladly  we  go  at  the  day's  decline, 
To  revel  in  bliss,  in  a  realm  divine. 


1 84 


LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Only  a  few  little  days  are  ours, 

Laden  with  labor  and  strife; 
Only  a  few  little  wayside  flow'rs, 

Blossom  in  valleys  of  life; 

So,  gladly   we  press  thro'  the  vales  of  gloom, 
To   beautiful  fields  in   the  land   of  bloom. 


WHEN.  185 


WHEN? 

When  baby  receives  the  fatherly  kiss, 
When  little  ones  coo,  in  heavenly  bliss, 
When  parent  and  child  sing  hallowed  lays, 
When  rapture  resounds  in  lowliest  ways, 
O  Sot,  O  Thou,  of  smouldering  brain, 
Do  sights,  like  these,  give  pleasure  or  pain? 
O   Sot,  O   Thou,  of  darkening  sky, 
Do  sights,  like  these,  awaken   no  sigh? 

When  motherly  love  gives  happiness  birth, 
When  little  ones  shout  their  innocent  mirth, 
When  parlor  is  strewn  with  trinkets  and  toys, 
When  orchard   is  filled   with  frolicking  boys, 
O   Sot,  O   Thou,  of  smouldering  brain, 
Do  sights,  like  these,  give  pleasure  or  pain? 
O  Sot,  O  Thou,  of  withering  heart, 
Do  sights,  like  these,  awaken  no  smart? 


l86  LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


When  Evil  entraps  the  manliest  men, 
When   Virtue  is  lost  in  hideous  den, 
When   Furies  dethrone  the  goddess  of   Right, 
When  Horrors  invoke  the  demons  of  night, 
O  Sot,  O  Thou,  of  smouldering  brain, 
Do  sights,  like  these,  give  pleasure  or  pain? 
O  Sot,  O  Thou  of  perishing  soul, 
Do  sights,  like  these,  betoken  a  goal  ? 

When  shivering  wife  is  flying  with  dread, 
When  hungering  child  is  crying  for  bread, 
When  Poverty  walks  the  sorrowing  land, 
When  Misery  smites  with  murderous  hand, 
O  Sot,  O  Thou,  of  smouldering  brain, 
Do  sights,  like  these,  give  pleasure  or  pain? 
O  Sot,  O  Thou,  of  maddening  spell, 
Do  sights,  like  these,  betoken   a   hell? 


GONE    BEFORE. 


,87 


Gone  before  — 
Closed  the  mystic  door! 

Soft  the  loved  is  sleeping, 

Safe  in   holy   keeping; 

Cease  the  bitter  weeping  — 
Only  gone  before! 

Gone  before  — 

Gained  the  unknown  shore! 
Hosts  are  gladly  singing; 
Harps  are  sweetly  ringing; 
Joy  thro'  heav'n  is  winging  — 

Only  gone  before! 


1 88 


LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Gone  before  — 
Balm  for  hearts  so  sore! 

O,  forget  your  sorrow; 

Smiles  from  dear   hope  borrow; 

Loved  you'll  greet  to-morrow  — 
Only  gone  before! 


A   POETIC  PROPOSAL.  189 


A  POETIC  PROPOSAL. 

"O  love,  my  love,  my  only  love, 
Be  now  my  own  true  wife," 
An  ardent  suitor  whispered   low, 

To  one  he  prized  as  life; 
"  And  then,  as  one,  we'll  gently  glide 

Adown  the  stream  of  time;"- 
To  which  the  maiden  calmly  said : 
"  Lord   Byron   wrote  that  rhyme." 

"  O  love,"  he  sighed,  "  my  angel  one, 

I  worship  none  but  you, 
For  in  the  round  of  all  the  earth, 

No  other  one's  so  true; 
And  should  you  cast  my  love  aside, 

Despair  would   fill  my  breast;" — 
To  which  the  maiden  gently  said: 

"  Those  lines  are  Bulwer's  best." 


190  LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


"  O  love,"  he  moaned,  "  but  lend  a  smile, 

And  fame  shall  weave  a  spell, 
To  make  the  lips  of  wond'ring  man, 

My  worth  and  valor  tell ; 
For,  armed  by  thought  and  hope  of  you, 

I'll  wage  a  war  with  wrong;" — 
To  which  the  maiden  kindly  said: 

"  La  me,  that's  Cowper's  song." 

"  O  love,"  he  criedj  "  my  peerless  one, 

O  sylph,  with  grace  divine, 
You  do  not  dream  the  mighty  flame 

Within  this  heart  of  mine; 
For  you  I'd  smite  the  shield  of  Death, 

Nor  shrink  to  meet  the  fray ; " — 
To  which  the  maiden  softly  said: 

"Tom  Campbell   tuned  that  lay." 


A    POETIC   PROPOSAL. 


"  O  love,"  he  groaned,  "  I  pray  you  speak, 

That  I  may  know  my  fate, 
And   even  now  your  magic  voice 

Could  open  heaven's  gate; 
O  yield  your  heart,  seraphic  one, 

I,  bending,  now  implore ;"- 
To  which  the  maiden  sweetly  said: 

"  That  strain  was  sung  by  Moore." 

"  You  wicked  witch,"  he  fairly  hissed, 
"  I'd  wed  a  shriveled  shrew, 
Before  I'd  be  compelled  to  live 

With  such  an  imp  as  you; 
Besides,  you're  such  a  homely  hag, 
Dore  ne'er  sketched   a  worse;" — 
To  which  the  maiden  fondly  said: 
"Why,  Pet,  that's  Dante's  verse." 


LTRICS    OF    THE  LARIAT. 


O  hasten,  my  darling,  while  sunlight  is  streaming, 
And   tarry   till   moonlight,  in   glory,  is  heaming, 
For  welcome,  unmeasured,  is  waiting  to  meet  you, 
And  kisses,  unnumbered,  are  longing  to  greet  you. 
Ah,  truly,  the  skies  have  brightened  above  me, 
Since  hearing  your  vows  and  knowing  you  love  me; 
And  even  the  birds,  transported  with  pleasure, 
Seem  ever  repeating:     Come  hither,  my  treasure. 


HASTEN.  193 


I'll  garland  you  gladly,  with  chaplet,  so  holy, 

Of  roses,  so  ruby,  and  lilies,  so  lowly; 

I'll  whisper  you  softly,  a  story  inspiring, 

Of  loving  forever,  with   ardor   untiring. 

As  leaflet  and   hud  awake  in  the  shower, 

My  heart  and  my  soul  acknowledge  your  power; 

As  smiling  of  spring,  each  morning,  grows  brighter, 

My  spirit,  my  darling,  in   loving,  grows  lighter. 

Enchanted,  we'll  wander  in  fairyland  bowers, 
Where  angels  are  bending  o'er  ravishing  flowers; 
Enraptured,  we'll  hearken  to  music  enthralling, 
Where  loudly  the  songster  its  sweetheart  is  calling. 
O  give   me  but  love,  unchangeably   glowing, 
And  fountains  of  trust,  unceasingly  flowing, 
And  heaven,  itself,  with  rapture,  will  quiver, 
While  safely,  together,  we're  crossing  life's  river. 


194  L TRIGS   OF   THE   LARIAT. 


The  sheen  of  the  morn, 

On  the  valley  and  mountain, 
The  gems  of  the  field, 

And  the  gifts  of  the  mine, 
The  glance  of  the  rill, 

And  the  gleam  of  the  fountain, 
All  tell,  with  their  splendor, 

Of  Power  Divine. 


POWER  DIVINE. 


'95 


The  voice  of  the  bird, 

In  a  rapture  of  gladness, 
The  sigh  of  the  wind, 

Thro'  the  whispering  pine, 
The  hush  of  the  eve, 

With  its  shadow  of  sadness, 
All  tell,  with  their  magic, 

Of  Power  Divine. 


The  tints  of  the  wood, 

And  their  delicate  blending, 
The  skirts  of  the  cloud, 

And  their  mystical  sign, 
The  Queen  of  the  Night, 

And  her  armies  attending, 
All  tell,  with  their  beauty, 

Of  Power  Divine. 


196  LTRICS    OF    THE  LARIAT. 


The  blades  of  the  storm, 

That  the  tempest  is  flashing, 
The  worlds  that  revolve 

In  the  hand  of  Design, 
The  wrath  of  the  deep, 

When  the  billows  are  dashing, 
All  tell,  with  their  grandeur, 

Of  Power  Divine. 

« 
O  Light  of  all  light, 

And  the  Source  of  all  being, 
The  land  and  the  sea 

And  the  heavens  are  Thine, 
And  over  them  all, 

And  in  wisdom  decreeing, 
Thou  rulest  forever, 

With  Power  Divine. 


LIFE'S  SERVICE. 


197 


In  the  morn  of  life, 
When  the  sun  is  shining  bright, 
When   the  heart   is  heating  light, 
When  the  eyes  are  lit  with   glee, 
When   we  sail  the  silv'ry   sea, 
We   should    look   upon   The   One, 
Who  was  slain  on   Calvary. 


198  LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


In  the  noon  of  life, 
When  the  sun   is  throned  on   high, 
When   the   days  go  swiftly  by, 
When  the  heart  is  bowed  with  care, 
When  we  bend  beneath   despair, 
We  should  call  upon   The  One, 
Who  will  all   our   burdens  bear. 

In  the  eve  of  life, 
When  the  sun  is  sinking  low, 
When  the  arms  aweary  grow, 
When  for  strength  we  vainly  call, 
When  the   friends  around  us  fall, 
We  should  lean  upon   The  One, 
Who  has  loving  aid   for  all. 


LIFE'S   AFTERNOON. 


199 


Just  twenty  years  ago,  my  love, 

Just  twenty  years  to-day, 
As  fairy  blooms  awoke,  my  love, 

At  nudge  of  roguish  May, 
We  gladly  joined  our  hands,  my  love, 

And  vowed  to  go  as  one, 
Along  the  winding  path,  my  love, 

That  ends  where  life  is  done. 


200  LYRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


When  compassed   round   by  cares,  my  dear, 

Your  faith  has  been  the  wand, 
That  cleft,  for  me,  the  way,  my  dear, 

Thro'  seas  of  dark  despond ; 
And  when  the  clouds  grew  dark,  my  dear, 

And  hid   my   sky   from   view, 
I  yet  have  found   the  light,  my  dear, 

When  safe  at  home,  with  you. 

When  Doubt  has  thrown  her  spell,  my  love, 

You've  smiled  away  my  fears; 
When  Grief  has  wailed  her  dirge,  my  love, 

You've  kissed  away  my  tears; 
And  when  my  soul  was  bound,  my  love, 

With  chains  of  gaunt  Despair, 
You've  quickly  loosed  my  bonds,  my  love, 

With  words  of  hope  and  prayer. 


LIFE'S   AFTERNOON.  2OI 


It  may  perchance  be  true,  dear  one, 

As  friends  now  sadly  say, 
That  Time  has  touched  your  face,  dear  one, 

And  tinged  your  hair  with  gray; 
And  yet,  to  me,  it  seems,  dear  one, 

That  you  are  fairer  now, 
Than  on  that  blushing  morn,  dear  one, 

We  made  that  holy  vow. 

Yet  if  your  beauty  fades,  my  love, 

At  chilling  touch  of  care, 
And  if  the  autumn  frost,  my  love, 

Now   steals  upon  your  hair, 
The  lilies  in  your  heart,  my  love, 

Yet  bud  and  burst  and  blow, 
As  sweetly  as  they  did,  my  love, 

A  score  of  years  ago. 


202 


LYRICS  OF  THE  LARIAT. 


But  well,  full  well,  we  know,  dear  wife, 

Our  Morn  has  wed  the  Noon, 
For  then    we  left  them  both,  clear  wife, 

Not  far  from  land  of  June; 
And  Eve  will  shortly  come,  dear   wife, 

With  step  as  soft  as  light, 
And  gently  lead  us  home,  clear  wife, 

To  realms  beyond  the  Night, 


AN  ASP. 


203 


Behold,  at  eve,  I  found  an  asp, 
Which  then  I  took  with  kindly  grasp, 
And  bore  it  hence  with  loving  clasp, 
But  loose  again  with  burning  heart, 
And  brain  that  throbs  with  fevered  start, 
And  eyes  that  pulse  with  fiery  smart. 

Behold,  that  asp,  so  stark  and  chill, 
Once  lonely  lay  on  barren  hill, 
Where  tempest  voice  was  sharp  and  shrill, 
While  lurking  doom  about  it  prowled, 
And  frenzied  wrath  above  it  howled, 
And  .glaring  death  anear  it  scowled. 


204  LTJff/CS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 

Behold,  with  strange  and  youthful  zest, 
I  fondly  gave  that  serpent   rest, 
Upon  rny  warm  and  trustful  breast, 
And  then,  by  care,  in  princely  store, 
I   wooed   it  back   to  life  once  more, 
And  kept  it  safe  till  night  was  o'er. 

Behold,  again,  as  morning  sang, 
And   rosy   light  to  heaven   sprang, 
That  hooded  asp,  with  deadly  fang, 
Gave  silent  stroke,  with  purpose  fell, 
To  fill  my  veins  with  molten   hell, 
And  chain  my  soul  with  dying  spell. 

Behold,  that    asp  —  Ingratitude  — 
That  worst  of  all  the  devil's  brood  — 
With  cunning  wile  and  malice  shrewd, 
Contrives  to  strike  the  venomed  blow, 
To  lay  the  form  of  friendship  low, 
And  blast  the  life  where  flowers  grow. 


ONCE  MORE. 


I  saw,  to-day, 
Some  little  one's  play, 
Who  sung  an  old  song  as  I  passed, 
And  woke,  for  me, 
By  wand,  of  their  glee, 
A  vision  too  sacred  to  last. 

*         *         * 
At  eve,  once   more, 
Again,  as  of  yore, 
My  stocking  I  hung  on  the  wall, 
For  well   I  knew 
That  Santa,  so  true, 
Ere  morning,  with  goodies,  would  call. 


206 


LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT, 


I  heard,  once  more. 
A  threatening  roar, 
ffAs  Tempests,  by  Furies, 

were  led, 

Yet  gave  no  care, 
For  mother  was  there 
To  lovingly  tuck  me  in  bed. 


With  shouts,  once   more, 
On  glistening  floor, 

I  galloped,  astride  of  a  broom, 
And  slid  down  stairs, 
And  jostled  the  chairs, 

And  frolicked  in  mother's 

best  room. 


ONCE  MORE. 


207 


At  school,  once  more, 
I  chiseled  the  door, 
By  aid  of  Bill  Barlow,  so 
keen, 

Then  bounded  out, 
With  echoing  shout, 
To  sport  on  the  beautiful  green. 


With  sled,  once  more, 

As  often  before, 
Tho'  sharp  was  the  wintery  air, 

I  climbed  the  hill, 

With  hearty  good  will, 
For  happiness  waited  me  there. 


208  LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 

And  then,  once  more, 
My  trousers  I  tore, 

When  bending  a  sapling  to  ride, 
But  still  no  word, 
Of  sorrow,  was  heard, 

Good  clothing  ne'er    being  my  pride 

I   sought,  once   more, 

A   hallowed  shore, 
And  joyfully  sprang  in  a  stream, 

Whose  glad   embrace, 

And  silvery  face, 
Bewitched   like  a  beautiful  dream. 

But  now,  once  more, 
Those  visions  are  o'er, 

Whose  magic  illumined  the  skyj 
And   spring  is  dead, 
And  summer  has  fled, 

And  autumn -winds  plaintively  sigh. 


ONCE   MORE. 


209 


O  Dreams,  so  sweet, 

The  weary  ye  greet, 
And  woo  them  to  Memory's  bow'rs; 

And   robe  thy   views 

In  heavenly  hues, 
And  border  life's  river  with  flow'rs. 


HOBO'S  LAMENT. 


211 


Y  O,  my  O,  this  sorry  Hobo 
Is  simply  a  wreck,  from  top  to  the  toe; 
And  wearily  now,  is  pounding  the  road, 
With  speed  of  a  mule,  when  yanking  a  load; 
Yes,  hitting  the  trail,  with  usual  zeal, 
To  get  to  the  East,  to  rustle  a  meal; 

And  O,  my  O,  this  sorry  Hobo 
Is  simply  a  wreck,  from  top  to  the  toe. 


212  LTRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


And  O,  my  O,  this  silly  Hobo 
Is  fool   number  one,  of  fools  that  you   know; 
For  surely  he  thought,  when  so   he  was  told, 
That  here,  at  the  front,  were  slathers  of  gold ; 
And  so  he  cut  loose,  along  with  the  rest, 
And  rode  in  the  filth,  away  to  the   West; 

And  O,  my  O,  this  silly  Hobo 
Is  fool  number  one,  of  fools  that  you  know. 

And  O,  my  O,  this  limy  Hobo 
Then  wanted  to  make  a  wonderful  show; 
So,  waded  in   mud,  and  scolded   and   fussed, 
And  basted   the    mules,  and    shouted  and  cussed. 
And  rastled  with  bread,  that    surely  was  sad, 
And  tussled  with  meat,  that  truly  was  bad; 

And  O,  my  O,  this  limy  Hobo 
Then  wanted  to  make  a  wonderful  show. 


HOBO'S   LAMENT.  213 


And  O,  my  O,  this  crazy  Hobo 
Soon  went  to  the  bad,  as  graders  will  go; 
For  when,  by  good   luck,  he  chanced   to  be  paid, 
He  reckoned  that  then,  his  fortune  was  made; 
And  so,  to  the  dens,  he  hurried  away, 
And   gambled  by   night,  and    guzzled  by  day; 

And  O,  my  O,  this  crazy   Hobo 
Soon  went  to  the  bad,  as  graders  will  go. 

And  O,  my  O,  this  bummy  Hobo 
Soon   had   for  a  bed,  but  beautiful  snow; 
For  when,  to  the  dives,  his  money  had  gone, 
Like  Wandering  Jew,  he  had  to  move  0115 
And  Poverty's  foot  then  gave  him  a  kick, 
And  many  a  tough  repeated  the  trick; 

And  O,  my  O,  this  bummy  Hobo 
Soon   had  for  a  bed,  but  beautiful  snow. 


214  LTRICS  OF  THE  LARIAT. 

And  O,  my  O,  this  busted  Hobo 
Now  hustles  to  make  this  journey  of  woe; 
For  here,  in  the  West,  where  grading    is  done, 
There  isn't  a  husk  for  Prodigal  Son; 
And  sadly  he  says,  nor  should  you  forget, 
That,  under  his  belt,  there's  stomach  to  let; 

And  O,  my  O,  this  busted  Hobo 
Now  hustles  to  make  this  journey  of  woe. 


O   THOU,  SUPREME. 


215 


MORNING    SONG. 

O  Thou,  Supreme, 

Thou  Mighty  One, 

With  heavens  for  thy  throne, 
Be  with  us  all,  till  life  is  done, 

Then  claim  us  as  Thine  own. 

EVENING    SONG. 

O  Thou,  Supreme, 

where  seraphs  throng, 

Enthroned  above  the  night, 
Give  ear  and  hear  our  parting  song, 

And  lead  us  all  to  light. 


THE   CIHLDREN'S  HOUR. 


217 


In  the  study,  quaint  and  cozy, 

With   its  walls,  by  pictures   hidden, 
With  its  shelves,  by   volumes  laden, 
With  its  grate,  by  mantel  sheltered, 
With  its  desk,  by  papers  covered, 
Sat  the  poet,  lone  and  silent, 
As  the  light  with  darkness  dallied, 
In  the  trysts  where  shadows   gathered. 
When,  upon  the  winding  stairway, 

With  their  cheeks,  aglow  with  gladness, 
With  their  eyes,  ablaze  with  gladness, 
With  their  voices,  hushed  to  silence, 
With  their  footsteps,  stilled  to  silence, 


2lS 


L TRIGS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Came  the  children,  tripping  lightly, 
Came  the  children,  stealing  softly, 
Lightly  as  the  rosy  morning, 
Softly  as  the  dusky  ev'ning, 
Thro'  the  open  doorway  gliding, 
Gliding  in  as  daylight  loitered, 
To  the  wide -armed  chair,   so  restful, 
Where,  unmoving,  deeply  thinking, 
Sat  the  poet  as  if   sleeping. 


THE   CHILDREN^  HOUR.  219 


Then,  with  glee,  they  pounced  upon  him, 
And  with  shouts  and  peals  of  laughter, 
As  upon  his  knees,  they  clambered, 
And  about  his  neck  they  clustered, 
Proudly  called  themselves  his  captors. 

But  the  dear,  the  roguish  darlings 
Quickly  found  that  fate  was  fickle, 
For,  instead  of  boasting   captors, 
They,  ere  long,  were  pleading  prisoners, 
Held  by  giant  arms  so  closely, 
That  they  vainly  strove  for  freedom. 

Tired,  at  last,  with  useless  striving, 
Striving  vainly  with  their  fetters, 
They  declared,  in  accents  humble, 
That,  to  gain,  again,  their  freedom, 
They  would  gladly  give  a  ransom, 


220  LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


E'en  a  ransom  from  the  treasure, 
Given  by  their  loving  Father. 

Then  the  proud  and  stalwart  victor, 
Tho'  full  loth  to  loose  the   pris'ners, 
Yet  more  loth  to  lose  the  ransom, 
Yielded  to  their  princely  offer; 
But  declared  that  captives,  ever, 
By  the  rules  of  lawless  warfare, 

Such  as  they,  the  rogues,  were  waging, 
Were  required  to  pay  the  ransom, 
Ere  they  gained  again  their  freedom; 
And  that  he  would,  therefore,  never 
Loose  and  free  them  from  their  fetters, 
Till  they  paid  to  him  the  treasure 
They  had  offered  for  their  freedom. 

Then,  at  once,  they  gave  him  freely, 
From  the  wealth  of  priceless  treasure, 


THE   CHILDREN'S  HOUR.  22 1 


Given  by  their  loving   Father, 
Kisses,  kisses,  many  kisses, 

Many,  sweetest,  purest  kisses, 
For  of  such  was  all  the  treasure, 
Given  by  their  loving    Father. 

Then  the  proud  and  stalwart  victor, 
Well  content  to  gain  the  ransom, 
Loosed  and  freed  them  from  the  fetters, 
That  withheld,  from  them,  their  freedom. 

But  while  yet  the  children  lingered 
Round  the  throne  of  their  misfortune, 
Conscience,  clad  in  whitest  raiment, 
White  as  robes  the  lofty  mountains, 
White  as  robes  the  holy  angels, 
Came,  as  comes  the  lovely  morning 
With  its  torch  of  love  outholding, 


222  LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Came,  as  comes  the  peaceful  ev'ning 
With  its  wand  of  peace   outreaching, 

And  the  victor  thus  admonished, 
Gently,  kindly,  thus  admonished: 

Do  not  rob  the  darling  children, 

But  return,  to  them,  the  ransom 

You  have  taken  from  the  treasure, 

Given  by  their  loving  Father; 

Victor,  do  not  rob    the  children 

Then,  much  moved,  he  heard    the  whispers 
Of  the  voice  of  white -robed  Conscience, 
And,  rejoicing,  gave  the  darlings 
Kisses,  kisses,  many  kisses, 

Many,  sweetest,  purest  kisses, 
And  returned,  in  full,  the  ransom 
He  had  taken  from  the  treasure, 
Given  by  their  loving  Father. 


THE   CHILDREN^  HOUR.  223 


Then  away  the  children  bounded, 

Like  the  stag,  when  horns  are  ringing, 
Like  the  hound,  when    prey  is  springing, 
Like  the  steed,  when  spurs  are   stinging, 
Thus  the  darlings,  laughing,  shouting, 
Bounded  down  the  winding  stairway, 
Bearing  with  them  all  the  treasure, 
Given  by  their  loving  Father. 

*  *  * 

All  alone  the  poet  waited, 
In  his  study  sat  and  waited, 

Waited  as  the  day  grew   fainter, 
Waited  as  the  shades  grew  deeper, 
Waited  as  the  night  grew  darker, 
Yet  his  eyes  were  filled  with  sunlight, 
For  his  heart  was  filled  with  love -light. 


224 


LTRICS    OF    THE   LARIAT. 


study  of 
?,  tho' 

ever  exciting. 
Is  deemed  by  us  all, 

a  study   inviting; 
For,  in  it,  we  read 

the  story  of  kisses, 
And,  from  it,  we  glean  our  holiest  blisses. 


LOVE'S  MOODS. 


225 


The  study  of  Love,  has  made 

the  world  better, 
And  there  is  not  one  who  is 

not  its  debtor; 
Ay,     even     the      babe  —  that 

cherub  —  rejoices, 
Because,    in    its    heart,   there 

whisper   Love's  voices. 


/  love  and  /'?«  loved,  are  lessons  inspiring, 
Which  each  of  us  cons,  unwearied,  untiring; 
For  learning  /  love,  imparts  a  new  pleasure, 
And  learning  Pm  loved,  gives  joy  beyond  measure. 

The  task  we  learn  first,  is  Love,  in  the  present, 
And  this  is  because  to  love,  is  so  pleasant; 
But  shortly  we  find  that  loving  is  fleeting, 
For  often  it  flies,  scarce  heeding  our  greeting. 


226  LTRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


As  learning   /  love,  is  often  most  vexing, 
So  learning    will  love,  is  often  perplexing; 
For  Cupid,  that  elf,  that  wooer,  so  skilful, 
Is  of  ten -times  coy,  and  wayward  and  wilful. 

And  all  of  his  aims,  from  mortals,  are  hidden, 
Nor  deigns  he  to  do  what  mortals  have  bidden; 
And  ne'er  do  we  learn  that  Love  will  steal  round  us, 
Ere  Cupid  has  caught  and  conquered  and  bound  us. 

The  study  of  Love,  is  truly  unending, 

With  numberless  parts,  distinct,  and  yet   blending, 

Presenting  a  view — one  ever  dissolving  — 

Of  gladness  and  grief,  together,  revolving. 

Yet  lessons  of  Love,  are  ever  enthralling, 
No  matter  tho'  tears,  of  sorrow,  are  falling; 
But  toil  as  we  may,  we  master  them  never, 
Till  reaching  that  home  where  gladness  reigns  ever. 


WONDERFUL   RIVER   OF  JORDAN.       227 


Wonderful  river  of  Jordan, 
Calm  is  thy  hallowed  breast, 

Whither  the  worn  and  the  weary, 
Go  unto  infinite  rest. 


Wonderful  river  of  Jordan, 

Hope  of  the  many  who  mourn, 

Never  has  wail  of  a  sorrow, 
Waked  thy  mysterious  bourn. 


228  LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 

Wonderful  river  of  Jordan, 
Bar  to  mortality's  night, 

Glory  of  Eden  is  shining, 

Flooding  thy  bosom  with  light. 

Wonderful  river  of  Jordan, 
Marge  of  the  valley  of  time, 

Lilies  bend  over  thy  border, 
Kist  by  the  heavenly  clime. 

Wonderful  river  of  Jordan, 

Stream  where  life's  journey  is  o'er, 

Silently  bearing  the  lowly, 
Flow  to  the  beautiful  shore. 


REST,  PEACE,  AND    JOT. 


229 


TJT 


There  is  rest,  true  rest, 
At  the  setting  of  the  sun ; 

There  is  rest,  true  rest, 
When  the  toiling  all  is  clone; 

There  is  rest,  true  rest, 
Safe  within  the  pearly  gates, 
Where  the  mansion,  over  yonder, 
For  the  weary,  ever  waits, 


230  LYRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


There  is  peace,  sweet  peace, 
At  the  dawning  of  the  clay; 

There  is  peace,  sweet  peace, 
When  the  shadows  fade  away ; 

There  is  peace,  sweet  peace, 
In  the  Temple  of  the  Soul, 
In  that  Holy  of  the  Holies, 
Where  hosannas  ever  roll. 

There  is  joy,  glad  joy, 
When  mortality    is  run; 

There  is  joy,  glad  joy, 
When  eternity  is  won; 

There  is  joy,  glad  joy, 
When  the  great,  angelic  throng 
Gives  a  greeting  and  a  welcome 
In  a  rhapsody  of  song. 


KEEP    US   CLOSE    TO    THEE. 


231 


^ 


O,  Lord,  we  all,  with  joy,  unite, 
To  ask,  in  faith,  that  wisdom's  light, 
May  guide  our  feet  in  paths  of  right, 
And  keep  us  close  to  Thee. 


O,  Lord,  the  lamhs  that  chance  to  stray, 
Of  prowling  wolves  are  soon  the  prey; 
So  guard  us  all  by  night  and  day, 
And  keep  us  close  to  Thee. 


232 


LYRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


O,  Lord,  thou  One  whose  love  we  sing, 
And  whose  dear  Gift  gave  gladness  wing, 
Within  our  lives  make  heauty  spring, 
And  keep  us  close  to   Thee. 

O,  Lord,  when  all  our  work  is  done, 
And  wearied  hands  sweet  rest  have  won, 
Take  Thou  us  all,  rejecting  none, 
And  keep  us  close  to   Thee. 


HALLOWED  SONG. 


233 


Holding  aloft  the  banner  of  right, 
Keeping  its  folds  forever  in  sight, 
Falter  we  not,  tho'  dangers  are  near, 
Murmur  we  not,  tho'  heavens  are  drear. 

Gathering  faith  from  promise  of  God, 
Having  no  fear  of  chastening  rod, 
Bravely  we  march  to  shadows  of  night, 
Gladly  we  march  to  dawning  of  light. 


234 


LTRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Claiming  the  help  of  Infinite    One, 
Firmly  resolved  no  duty  to  shun, 
Gladness  we  bring  to  many  who  mourn, 
Courage  we  bring  to  weary  and  worn. 


Firm  in  the  faith,  "we  journey  along, 
Waking  the  notes  of  hallowed  song  ; 
Singing  of  hope,  when  trials  begin, 
Singing  of  joy,  when  battles  ive  'win. 


GOOD  NIGHT. 


235 


Tho'  glad  hearts  are  beating, 

And  the  joy -notes  ring, 
Old  Time  now  is  fleeting, 

With  a  well -poised  wing; 
And  soon  we  will  sever, 

With  a  warm  "good  night," 
And  thoughts  that  will  ever, 

Make  the  eyes  grow  bright; 
And,  friends,  tho'  as  strangers, 

On  the  paths  you  tread, 


236 


LYRICS    OF    THE  LA1UAT. 


I  hope  that  no  dangers 

May  he  crouched  o'erhead ; 
And  when,  on  the  morrow, 

Holy    night  -  fall    nears, 
I  trust  that  no  sorrow 

Will  arouse  your  fears; 
And  pray  that  your  rivers, 

When  your  course  you've  run, 
May  tell,  hy  their  quivers, 

Of  a  fair  -  set  sun. 


THE  cownor  PKEACHER. 


2  37 


may  talk  about  the  many 

In  the  race  to  gain  the  skies, 
And  may  even  name  the  sinners, 

You  declare  to  win  the  prize, 
But  if  zeal,  in  matters  holy, 

Can,  for  sin,  at  all,  atone, 
Bear  in  mind  that   bronco -riders 

Won't  be  last  to  reach    the  throne. 


238  I. TRIGS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


As  you  know,  I  left  the    college, 

In  the  spring  of  'eighty-one, 
With  the  wish  to  preach  the  Gospel, 

Out  beneath  the  setting   sun ; 
Sc,  I  wandered  to  the  westward, 

Where  the  tide  of  empire    rolls, 
Seeking  place  to  serve  the  Master, 

At  the  work  of  saving  souls. 

Well,  by  hap,  the  wheel  of  fortune, 

Steered  me  out  upon  the  plain, 
Where,  it  seemed,  the  mighty  Reaper, 

Scarce  would  think  to  look  for  grain; 
For  the  crop  was  thin  and   scanty, 

Yet  would  grow  so  very  tall, 
That,  when  Satan  raised  a  tempest, 

It  was  sure  to  lodge  or  fall. 


THE   COW  EOT  PREACHER. 


239 


But,  altho'  the  earth  seemed  arid, 

And,  in  spots,  was  nearly  bare, 
And,  altho'  the  harvest  Sower, 

Scattered  wheat  but  here  and  there, 
Still,  the  stalks,  if   few  in  number, 

Often  gave  a  goodly  yield, 
Even  tho'  the  storms  of  error, 

Swept,  at  times,  across  the  field. 


240  LTRICS   OF   THE  LARIAT. 


For  the  seed  would  never  wither, 

Mattered  not  how  poor  the  land, 
As  the  lowly  germs  were  planted, 

By  a  mother's  magic  hand ; 
And  would  therefore  spring    to  beauty, 

In  despite  of  drouths  and  rust, 
And  return  a  golden  fruitage, 

For  the  garner  of  the  Just. 

And,  of  course,  upon  that  prairie, 

On  that  wide  and  waveless  sea, 
Where  the  skies,  in  moving  splendor, 

Span  such  vast  eternity, 
Man  would  grow  in  will  and  power, 

Man  would  gain  in  soul  and  brawn, 
And  the  one,   at  heart,  a  coward, 

Found  it  best  to  gallop  on. 


THE    COW  HOT  PREACHER.  241 


Well,  just  why,  I'll  never  tell  you, 

But  I  liked  those  buccaneers, 
Who  so  madly   rode  that  ocean, 

In  the  wake  of  Texan  steers; 
So,  I  sharply   veered  my  rudder, 

Fully  bent  to  change  my  tack, 
And  was  soon  as  wild  a  cowboy, 

As  bestrode  a  bronco's  back. 

But,  one  day,  the  others   reckoned' — 

Just  as  tho'  thev  didn't  care- 
That  my  gift  was  surely  preaching, 

Seeing  how  I  couldn't  swear; 
And,  one  eve,  as  fairy  visions, 

From   the  past,  came  trooping  in, 
They  declared   it   was  my  duty, 

There,  with  them,  to  wrestle  sin. 


242  LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


Quickly,  then,  the  touch  of  Conscience, 

Roused  me  from  my  slothful  sleep, 
While  a  spirit  voice  repeated 

Holy  vows  I'd  failed  to  keep; 
When,  at  once,  with  strange  emotion, 

Moved,  somehow,  by   wizard  spell, 
I  arose  and  told  the  story, 

Each  had  heard   his    mother  tell. 

Cared  I  not,  that  hour,  for  glory, 

Spoke  I  not  of  carping   creed, 
Nor,  to  words  of  worldly  wisdom, 

Gave  I  then  a  moment's  heed; 
But   I   simply  led   my   hearers, 

'Mid  the  mob,  beneath  the  tree, 
Where  the  One,  of  love  and  mercy, 

Died,  for  them,  on  Calvary. 


THE   COWBOT  PREACHER. 


243 


Ere  my  simple  tale  was  finished, 

Many  eyes  were  filled  with  tears, 
And  upon  no  lip  was  resting, 

E'en  the  trace  of  cynic  sneers; 
Later  still,  when  praise  was  offered, 

Many  sung  that  song  of  yore: 
Come,  ye  sinners,  poor  and  needy, 

Weak  and  wounded,  sick  and  sore. 


244  LYRICS    OF   THE   LARIAT. 


Now,  it  chanced  that  one,  queer  fellow, 

Left  the  crowd  as  I  begun, 
Stating  that  he  choosed  to  vanish, 

Till  that  pious  chap  was  done; 
Whereupon  the  rest  concluded, 

It  was  best  to  teach  him,  then, 
That,  when  others  talked  religion, 

He  should  say,  at  least,  "Amen." 

So,  when  service  all  had  ended, 

Plunged   they   him,  by  law   of  might, 
In  a  pool  of    muddy  water, 

Claiming  thus  they  served  him  right; 
And   as  forth   he  blindly   scrambled, 

Of  all  sights  about  the  worst, 
Gave  they  him  a  second  sousing, 

So  he'd  know  he'd  been  immersed. 


THE    COWBOT  PREACHER. 


245 


Therefore,  when  you  count  the  many 

In  the  race  to  gain  the  skies, 
And  are  pointing  out  the  sinners, 

You  declare  to  win  the  prize, 
Bear  in  mind,  if  zeal  is  worthy, 

And,  for  sin,  may  e'er  atone, 
Then  the  rider  of  the  bronco, 

Won't  be  last  to  reach  the  throne. 


246 


LYRICS    OF   THE  LARIAT. 


When  wave  is  silvern,  and  the  clouds  are  few, 
And  keel  is  oaken,  and  the  spars  arc  new, 
If  Love  go  with  us  o'er  the  boundless  blue, 
We'll  gain   Eternity. 

When  sky  is  sullen,  and  the  winds  are  cold, 
And  flock  is  straying,  and  the  wolves  are  bold, 
If  lambs  we  gather,  for  the  Lord's  great  fold, 
We'll  gain   Eternity. 


ETERNITT. 


247 


When  sea  is  surging,  and  the  sails  are  torn, 
And  hulk  is  straining,  and  the  ropes  are  worn, 

• 

If  cares,  of  others,  in  our  hearts,  are  borne, 
We'll  gain  Eternity. 

When  strength  is  fallen,  and  the  years  are  run, 
And  work  is  ended,  and  the  strifes  are  done, 
If  sins  we've  battled,  and  the  fights  we've  won, 
We'll  gain  Eternity. 


248 


LYRICS  OF  THE  LARIAT, 


The  pioneer,  on  Western  plain, 

Requires  more  nerve   and   daring, 
Than    they    who   step   to   martini   strain, 

Or   Valor's  plumes   are   wearing; 
For  he  may   claim   but   walls  of    sod, 

Tho'  storms   be   wildly    raving, 
And    Want    full   often   plies   the   rod, 

As   Fate  he's  sternly   braving; 


THE  SOD  HOUSE  COMING.  249 

And   you,  of   love,    when    hours  you   while, 
As  cars  go   westward   humming, 

Fling   out   a   kiss,  and   wing   a  smile, 
When   you   see   the   sod  house  coming. 

The  pioneer,   on    boundless  plain, 

Has  stirred   the   wilds   to  duty, 
For  deserts  now,  bear    golden    grain, 

And   witch  the   eye   with   beauty; 
And  there,  within  the   humble   homes, 

Diviner   notes   are    ringing, 
Than   wake   the   aisles   of    stately    domes, 

When   choirs   are  proudly  singing; 
And   you,  of   pride,   when   hours  you  while, 

As  cars  go  westward   humming, 
Bend   low    your   heads,   nor  dare    revile, 

When  you    see   the  sod  house   coming. 


250 


LTRICS  OF  THE  LARIAT. 


The  pioneer,   on   treeless  plain, 

Should  live  in  song   and  story, 
And  far  across   the  rolling   main, 

Should   speed    his  name   of   glory; 
For   never  yet  to  peaceful  strife, 

Went   forth  more   valiant  foeman, 
Nor  ever    yet,   on   field   of   life, 

Has   strived   more  sturdy   yeoman; 
And   you,  of   fame,  when   hours   you  while, 

As  cars   go   westward   humming, 
Slow  down  your  train,  and  lift  your  tile, 

When  you  see  the  sod  house  coming. 


PARTING. 


25' 


Whene'er  we  meet  at  restful  eve, 

As  hands  unseen  the  shadows  weave, 

We  speed  the  wings  of  fading  light, 

Then  smiling  say:    Good  night,  good  night: 

Ah  me,  those  words  are  like  the  mist, 

That  burning  lips  to  skies  have  kist, 

To  breathe  again,  in  wizard  rain, 

And  woo  from  earth  her  sweetest  strain. 


252  LTRICS  OF  THE  LARIAT. 


And  when,  afar,  we're  called  to  roam, 
To  soon  return  to  friends  and    home, 
Before  we  go,  we   barely  sigh, 
Tho'  loth  to  say:     Good -by,  good -by; 
Ah  me,  those  words,  like    flecks  of  gray, 
That  slowly  sail  their  silv'ry  way, 
But  robe  the  vales,  with  richer  glow, 
Where  rippling  rills  of   kindness   flow. 

And  when  we're  doomed  by  fate  to  part 
From  those  we  shrine  in  love's  dear  heart, 
We  seem  to  hear  the  mournful  bell, 
As  sad  we  say:     Farewell,  farewell; 
Ah  me,  those  words  are  like  the  clouds, 
That  hang,  on   high,  like  ghostly    shrouds, 
While  wailing  winds  of  sorrow  blow, 
And   Joy,  herself,  lies  wrapped    in  snow. 


253 


But  when   we  say:     Good   night,  good   night, 
Those   fleecy   words,   in   bridal   white, 
Or  softly  call:     Good -by,  good -by, 
Those  dusky   words,  in   azure  sky, 
Or  sadly  breathe:     Farewell,  farewell, 
Those  sable  words,  with   wintry  spell, 
We  feel   that  yet  our  winding   ways 
Will  cross,  somewhere,  in   coming  days. 


NOTES. 


Note  /,  Page  13. — THE  COWBOY. 

Reckless  and  tireless,  untamable  as  a  prairie  chicken, 
brave  as  proudest  knight  in  storied  tourney,  the  Cowboy  is 
the  dauntless  hero  of  a  new  chivalry,  even  more  strange 
and  romantic  than  that  of  the  middle  ages. 

In  speaking  to  a  comrade,  he  calls  him  ivaddy ;  when 
talking  of  one,  he  refers  to  him  as  puncher. 


Note  2,  Page  24. —  BEN. 

This  poem,  while  relating  an  experience  of  the  writer, 
is  intended  to  show  that,  even  in  the  most  calloused  heart, 
there  is  goodness  which  the  talismanic  name  of  Mother,  at 
times  will  awaken. 

The  terms  used  are:  Budge  —  whiskey;  navy — re 
volver;  steamed  above  his  gauge — drank  to  excess ;  plug  the 
imp  —  shoot  him. 

Note  3,  Page  42. — MAVERICK  JOE. 

Col.  Maverick,  of  Texas,  who  owned  a  very  large 
number  of  cattle,  allowed  them  to  stray  over  the  plains 
unclaimed  —  because  of  which,  the  cattlemen  finally  came 
to  calling  every  unbranded  animal  a  Maverick.  Naturally, 


NOTES. 


255 


when  Texan  stock  were  driven  North,  the  term  mentioned 
went  with  them,  until  now  it  is  actually  engrafted  on  the 
Statutes  of  some  of  the  Western  States,  like  meaning  being 
given  it  as  in  the  place  of  its  origin. 

As  the  cow  and  calf  never  fail  to  recognize  each  other, 
the  latter,  of  course,  is  given  the  same  brand  as  that  of  its 
mother.  Hence,  the  only  way  of  preventing  the  true  own 
ership  of  the  calf  from  being  known,  is  to  separate  it  from 
the  cow,  to  do  which,  the  latter  is  not  infrequently  killed  by 
the  rustlers  or  Maverick  thieves. 

In  the  poem,  Maverick  Joe  marked  a  lone  calf  with  his 
cross  (  +  ).  On  the  next  day,  at  the  round-up,  the  mother, 
branded  with  a  square  (  o  ),  was  driven  in,  when  followed 
the  recognition  and  consequences  pictured  out  in  the  lines. 

The  terms  used  in  the  poem  are:  Bronco-buster  —  one 
who  breaks  broncos ;  puncher  —  a  cattle-driver;  rangier — a 
horse-herder;  whisper — to  talk  loudly,  one  who  does  so, 
being  called  a  whisperer;  rustle  —  to  steal;  tenderfoot  —  one 
unused  to  the  west;  budge  —  whiskey;  rastled — wrestled; 
round-up — the  driving  in  together  of  all  the  cattle  from  a 
large  territory,  participated  in  by  all  owners,  each  of  whom 
then  brands  the  stock  to  which  he  is  entitled,  the  calf  being 
given  a  like  brand,  as  that  borne  by  the  mother. 


Note  4,  Page  51. — THEN. 

A  young  lady,  sad   because  of  a  broken  engagement, 
asked  that  a  poem  be  written,  to  be  entitled,  Then  and  Now. 


256  NOTES. 


As  the  chief  charm  of  poetry  is  due  to  the  fact  that,  within 
it,  there  is  ever  a  hiatus  for  the  mind  of  the  reader  to  fill, 
the  title  of  Then  was  found  to  be  amply  sufficient  for  the 
entire  thought  desired,  the  NO-M  being  but  slightly  concealed 
between  the  lines. 


Note  5,  Pnge  54. — THE    PRAIRIE-DOG. 

The  occasion  of  these  lines  was  the  following  incident: 
Riding  with  a  friend,  in  Wyoming,  the  writer  remarked 
that  a  poem  might  be  found  in  any  subject,  if  the  seeker 
had  onlv  the  necessary  skill.  To  this,  the  other  replied  bv 
saving  that  there  was  no  poetry  in  a  prairie-dog,  at  the 
same  time  pointing  to  one,  a  little  distant,  which  was  then 
sitting  proudly  upright,  barking  and  jerking  its  tail  vigor 
ously. 

In    regard    to    the    prairie-dog,    it    is    to    be    remarked: 

(1)  That  it  invariably  moves  its  tail  everv  time  it  barks,  the 
tail  apparent! v  being  the  lever  bv  which  its  jaws  are  moved: 

(2)  that  it  is  seemingly  one  of  the  proudest  and  happiest  of 
all    those   accustomed   to    village  or   city  life;  (3)  that   the 
snake   and   owl   invariably  inhabit   its  burrow,  probably  for 
the  purpose  of  dining  upon  its  young;  and  (4)  that  it  never 
makes   its   home   bv  a   pond  or  stream,  preferring  to  dig  to 
water   rather    than     run  the  risk  of  a   damp  bed  or  being 
flooded  out. 


NOTES.  257 

Note  6,  Page  68. — MY  DREAM  OF  LOVE. 

An  old  man,  with  whom  the  writer  is  acquainted,  inva 
riably  calls  a  certain  voting  lady,  "  My  Dream  of  Love," 
alone  because  of  the  resemblance  she  bears  to  the  wife  of 
his  young  manhood,  who,  tho'  gone  before,  yet  remains  his 
dream  of  love.  Hence  this  poem. 


Note  7,  Page  70. — THE  BLIZZARD. 

The  blizzard  of  January  12,  1888  —  the  worst  that  ever 
•swept  across  the  western  plains  —  was  made  historic  by  the 
three  Nebraska  school-ma'ams,  the  deeds  of  whom  are  inci 
dentally  referred  to  in  this  poem.  The  story,  however,  of 
the  saving  of  the  father  by  the  boy's  ringing  of  the  bell — 
told  the  writer  by  Mr.  Jay  Burrows,  of  Lincoln,  Neb.,  and 
here  published  for  the  first  time  —  is  an  incident  certainly 
no  less  noteworthy  than  the  others  alluded  to,  and  furnishes 
a  theme  which  it  would  require  the  genius  of  a  Scott  to 
fittingly  portray. 

It  may  be  that  exception  will  be  taken  to  the  line, 
"She  held  four  kings  at  the  game  of  prayer."  If  so,  the 
reader  is  asked  to  remember  that,  at  poker,  one  holding 
such  a  hand,  would  —  upon  the  ratio  of  chances  —  scarcely 
lose  once  in  a  thousand  times.  Hence,  the  line,  as  written, 
is  a  forcible,  tho'  rough  statement  of  the  fact  that  the  wife's 
prayer  was  so  earnest  and  potent,  that  it  could  not  well  fail 
to  accomplish  its  purpose.  Besides,  it  should  be  borne  in 


258  NOTES. 


mind  that  the  tale  is  told  in  the  west,  and  therefore  it  can 
not  be  said  to  be  improper  to  couch  it  in  the  vigorous  words 
not  infrequently  used  in  many  parts  of  that  breezy  section 
of  country. 

Again,  it  may  be  that  exception  will  also  be  taken  to 
the  fact  that  the  speaker,  tho'  evidently  an  educated  person, 
is  made  to  use  slang.  To  such  criticism,  the  answer  is 
given  that  even  the  newest  portions  of  the  west  are  peopled 
with  men,  who,  tho'  from  the  schools  and  colleges  of  the 
east,  yet  habitually  use  slang  —  not  because  they  do 
not  kn'ow  how  to  speak  elegantly,  but  simply  because,  by 
slang,  they  may  abridge  their  words  and  add  emphasis 
without  abridging  their  meaning  or  running  the  risk  of  not 
being  understood.  Indeed,  the  one  who  makes  even  the 
wildest  of  these  western  people  appear  as  unlettered  boors, 
not  only  fails  to  understand  the  people  of  whom  he  writes, 
but  actually  does  injustice  to  that  great  country  for  which 
he  presumes  to  speak. 


Note  <?,  Page  93. — INYAN  KARA. 

In  the  volcanic  age,  during  which  the  great  west  was 
first  a  sea  of  water  and  then  a  sea  of  fire,  a  new  mountain 
was  upheaved  thro'  the  very  center  of  an  older  one,  leaving 
but  the  rim  of  the  latter  intact,  which  still  grimly  encircles 
its  rocky  usurper.  This  curious  formation  stands  in  the 
northeast  corner  of  Wyoming,  on  the  margin  of  a  vast 
plain,  and  is  known  by  the  Indian  name  of  Inyan  Kara, 


NOTES.  259 

meaning  a  mountain  within  a  mountain.  Some  miles  away, 
across  the  flats,  the  Sundance  mountain  lifts  its  bald  brow, 
where  of  yore  the  youthful  warrior  demonstrated  his  cour 
age  as  well  as  his  indifference  to  pain,  by  the  bloody  test  of 
the  far-famed,  yet  horrid,  Sun  Dance. 

Aria  is  the  Crow  name  for  arm,  Eeka  meaning  pretty. 
The  latter  term,  however,  is  usually  written  fcJtie.  Still,  as 
this  method  only  misleads  the  reader,  in  regard  to  the  proper 
pronunciation,  and  as  there  is  really  no  standard  for  the 
writing  of  Indian  names,  it  has  been  thought  best  to  print  it 
just  as  it  should  be  pronounced. 


Note  9,  Page  103. — HIGH  MASS  OF  THE  MUSES. 

For  fifty  years,  Prof.  Mendal  had  presided  over  that 
greatest  of  church  organs  —  the  one  at  Berne,  Switzerland. 
For  the  purpose  of  attracting  visitors,  the  authorities  threw 
open  the  doors  of  the  great  Cathedral,  during  the  tourist 
season,  furnishing  free  entertainment  to  all  who  cared  to 
attend. 

One  lovely  evening,  with  the  idling  crowd,  the  writer 
was  swept  into  the  magnificent  minster,  just  as  the  shadows 
of  the  Alps  were  falling  across  the  valleys  of  that  wonder 
land.  In  the  great  room  and  almost  hidden  within  the 
groined  vaulting,  a  half  dozen  feebje  tapers  lent  their  flick 
ering  rays,  not  for  the  purpose  of  giving  light,  but  only  to 
add  more  of  -weirdness  to  the  scene  and  make  the  darkness 
even  more  sensibly  apparent.  Presently  the  familiar 


260  NOTES. 


melody,  "Must  I  Depart  From  My  Mountains"  began  to 
steal  thro'  the  silent  chamber,  as  if  from  the  lips  of  some 
divine  Diva,  the  soprano  being  in  turn  succeeded  by  alto, 
bass  and  tenor  voices,  each,  in  succession,  taking  up  and 
repeating  the  same  simple  strain.  Then,  just  as  the  last 
note  seemed  dying  away,  the  song  again  came  pulsing  thro' 
the  shadowy  darkness,  the  notes  of  all  the  singers  being 
blent  and  melted  into  a  chorus  of  moving  power  and  won 
drous  beauty,  to  which  a  myriad  of  wind  and  stringed 
instruments  lent  their  softest  strains,  all  trilling  forth 
enchanting  variations  of  that  same  Tyrolean  lay.  Shortly, 
a  far-away  peal  of  thunder  half-startled  the  entranced 
throng,  the  distant  rumble  being  quickly  followed  by  louder 
and  more  threatening  warnings  of  the  nearing  tempest. 
Soon  the  air  began  to  sigh  and,  ere  long,  to  whistle  thro' 
the  stately  corridors  of  that  majestic  temple  of  the  muses, 
the  storm  being  hurried  along  by  the  winds  rushing  from 
the  organ's  lungs.  But  these  sounds  were  soon  lost  in  the 
rhythmic  roar  of  a  classical  tornado,  which  then  came 
charging  on,  fairly  shaking  the  building  in  its  mad  wrath, 
despite  of  which  ever  crept  out  the  beautiful  notes  of  that 
Alpine  song.  Then,  again,  the  storm  began  to  abate,  even 
as  woods  of  feathered  songsters  come  forth,  and,  in 
snatches  of  that  same  simple  melody,  warbled  praise  to  the 
hidden  Apollo,  who,  high-perched  in  the  organ-loft,  had 
lifted  a  cloud  from  many  a  heart  of  many  a  listening 
dreamer.  Then,  once  more,  a  choir,  seemingly  of  sweet 
voiced  singers,  took  up  that  mountain  melody,  and,  wander- 


NOTES.  261 


ing  farther  and  farther  away,  sung  it  over  and  over  again, 
while  the  enraptured  throng  bent  forward  to  catch  the  last 
lingering  cadence  of  the  expiring  rhapsodv.  O,  it  was 
glorious!  Ay,  that  song  was  even  more  enchanting  than 
ever  a  siren  wafted  winningly  across  the  wave  to  woo  a 
Ulysses  upon  the  mythical  breakers  of  the  Caprean  rocks. 

When  the  writer  spoke  to  that  master,  in  eulogy  of  the 
performance,  the  latter  modestly  replied:  "  A//,  the  instru 
ment  is  a  very  fine  one" 

High  mass  is  a  religious  service,  entirely  of  music. 


Note  10,  Page  120. — TJHE  LOON  CRY. 

The  loon —that  swiftest  swimmer  of  all  the  feathered 
tribe  —  cries  in  a  minor  key,  and  seems  to  say,  "  Only  a  fool 
7 scefn  

Note  n,  Page  131. — A  THIRTY  YEARS'  DREAM. 

The  writer,  returning  to  his  native  home  after  an  ab 
sence  of  many  years,  found  that  the  little  country  school- 
house,  attended  by  him  in  youth,  had  been  torn  away,  and 
a  railroad  constructed  across  the  very  spot  where  it  had 
stood.  Hence,  this  poem,  addressed  to  Alf.  Mattix,  a  former 
school-mate 

Note  12,  Page  152. — THE  CURLEW  SONG. 

The  Curlew  Song,  tho'  moving  but  a  single  step  of  the 
gamut,  and  that  by  half  tones,  is  not  unmusical,  and, 


262  NOTES. 


beside,  can   be  easily  imagined  as  saying  the  words  attrib 
uted  to  it  in  the  poem. 

And,  here,  by  the  way,  it  might  not  be  amiss  to  state 
that  this  poem  was  written  far  out  on  the  western  plain, 
the  prompter  being  a  curlew,  which,  untried  and  unvexed 
by  business  cares,  and  uncaged  and  unbruised  by  a  torturing 
stage-coach,  sailed  gracefully  on  before,  on  arching  wing, 
singing  its  simple  lay — one  seemingly  begotten  of  a  happi 
ness  far  exceeding  that  possessed  by  the  ordinary  run  of 
human-kind. 


Note  /j>,  Page  163.— BAIT. 

The  following  incident  was  the  occasion  of  this  poem: 
At  a  recent  session  of  the  Nebraska  Legislature,  the 
number  of  employes  on  the  rolls  was  strikingly  large, 
almost  every  committee  having  its  paid  clerk,  such 
appointment  being  made  for  the  sole  purpose,  generally 
speaking,  of  giving  some  friend  of  the  chairman  a  sinecure 
position  at  the  expense  of  the  State.  Hon.  John  C.  Watson 
— one  of  the  leaders  of  the  minority  party  and  who,  two 
years  before,  had  been  the  presiding  officer  of  the  same 
House — was  appointed  chairman  of  the  Fish  Committee, 
this  position  being  given  him  as  a  mere  joke,  there  being 
nothing  whatever  for  this  committee  to  do.  Shortly  after 
this,  Mr.  Watson  arose  and  solemnly  asked  that  the  presid 
ing  officer  allow  him  a  clerk.  Greatly  astonished  at  such  a 
request,  the  Speaker  sharply  demanded  to  know  what 


NOTES.  263 


possible  use  the  chairman  of  the  Fish  Committee  had  for  a 
Clerk,  tp  which  query,  instantly  came  back  the  apt  and 
satirical  answer:  "  To  cut  bait." 


Note  14.,  Page  77^. — HAVE  I  THY  LOVE. 

These  lines  are  a  translation  of  the  German  song, 
"  Hub"1  Ic/i  nttr  Dcine  Liebc"  written  by  Zell  and  Genes,  for 
the  operetta,  Boccaccio.  This  quaint  poem  has  heretofore 
generally  been  considered  as  untranslatable. 


Note  75,  Page  799. — LIFE'S  AFTERNOON. 

This  poem  was  written  for,  and  read  on  the  occasion 
of  the  twentieth  anniversary  of  the  wedding  of  Rev.  Eli 
l-'isher  and  wife,  then  residing  at  Beatrice,  Nebraska. 


Note  16,  Page  211.—  HOBO'S  LAMENT. 

The  origin  of  Hobo,  the  term  now  so  generally  applied 
to  the  railroad  grader,  is  unknown,  but  is  generally  sup 
posed  to  have  come  from  the  salutation  of  "  Ho,  boy !  " 
which  was  shouted  by  one  workman  to  another,  and  finally 
shortened  into  the  name  now  in  common  use.  The  Hobos 
are  enlisted,  so  to  speak,  by  labor  agents,  in  the  larger 
of  the  western  cities  and  shipped,  in  car-loads,  to 
the  points  where  wanted.  Naturally,  as  may  well  be 
imagined,  the  Hobo-car,  long  ere  it  reaches  its  destina- 


264 


NOTES. 


tion,  is  redolent  with  odors  not  of  those  which  are  said 
to  be  clinging  to  the  garments  of  the  fair  daughters 
of  Farina.  The  Hobo  is,  or  soon  becomes,  a  queer 
type  of  humanity.  Earning  good  wages,  he  toils  con 
tentedly  on,  despite  rain  and  mud,  till  the  monthly  pay 
day  comes.  Then  he  takes  a  lay  off  for  the  purpose  of 
spending  his  wealth,  at  which  he  is  a  phenomenal  success. 
Indeed,  as  illustrative  of  this  assertion,  mention  is  here 
made  of  the  fact  that,  upon  one  occasion,  where  a  large 
number  of  such  laborers  were  given  their  pay-checks, 
ninety  per  cent,  of  their  entire  earnings  was  held  and  owned 
by  the  adjacent  saloons,  dens  of  infamy  and  gambling  hells, 
before  the  next  sunrise.  After  a  reasonable  time  spent  in 
such  debauchery,  they  are  willing  again  to  return  to  work, 
seemingly  only  hoping  for  another  pay-day  to  arrive,  to 
bring  with  it  a  repetition  of  its  insane  orgies  and  fancied 
delights. 

The  meanttig  of  the  terms  used  in  this  poem,  are: 
Pounding  the  road — walking  the  road;  rustle  a  meal — hunting 
something  to  eat;  hitting  the  trail — footing  homeward; 
slathers  of  gold — abundance  of  money  ;  cut  loose  along  -with 
the  rest — went  with  them  ;  basted  the  mules — pounded  them ; 
rustled  with  bread — wrestled  with,  or  worried  it  down ; 
hustles — walks  earnestly. 


Note  77,  Page  237. — THE  COWBOY  PREACHER. 

The  story  of  the  two-fold  ducking  of  the  cowboy  who 


NOTES.  265 


refused  to  remain  to  hear  the  sermon,  relates  an  actual  in 
cident  which  took  place  in  Wyoming. 


Note  i8t  Page  248. — THE  SOD  HOUSE  COMING. 

Mr.  C.  E.  Perkins,  President  of  the  Chicago,  Burling 
ton  &  Quincv  Railroad  Company,  recently  made  a  tour  of 
his  lines  of  road,  accompanied  by  his  wife  and  a  party  of 
friends. 

Mrs.  Perkins,  on  this  occasion,  kindly  took  with  her  a 
large  assortment  of  toys  and  picture  books,  with  which  to 
gladden  the  little  ones,  whom  she  should  chance  to  see  on 
her  journey.  Observing  these  presents, as  they  were  placed 
aboard  the  train,  Mr.  Perkins  dryly  remarked  that  the 
engineer  should  go  slow,  whenever  the  latter  saw  a  sod 
house  coming,  reference  being  to  the  faot  that  the  gifts 
were  intended  only  for  the  children  of  the  prairies,  and 
hence  opportunity  should  be  given  for  their  distribution. 

On  such  pleasure  jaunts,  Mrs.  Perkins  takes  with  her 
a  log-book,  for  which  a  member  of  the  party  is  asked  to 
contribute  something  pertaining  to  the  trip;  the  article,  in 
this  instance,  was  requested  of  the  writer,  this  poem 
being  the  response. 

In  the  title  of  the  poem,  is  to  be  seen  an  exact  repre 
sentation  of  the  house  originally  built  upon  the  first 
homestead  taken  in  the  United  States  —  the  one  taken  and 


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